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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE 


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3.  ISiomi 


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?K 


DEDICATION. 


Yeaks  ago  I  used  to  say  that,  if  I  ever  wrote  a  book,  it 
sliould  be  dedicated  to  my  mother. 

The  possibility,  then  contemplated  almost  in  jest,  has 
now  been  fulfilled.  The  book  is  written,  but  all  else  is 
changed.     I  will  keep  my  promise  still. 

Let  this,  my  first  novel,  which  would  have  been  a  tribute 
of  tenderest  affection  to  the  Living,  become  a  solemn  offer- 
ing to  the  holy  memory  of  the  Dead. 


9gSS15 


THE  OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

She,  like  tlie  hazel  twig, 
Is  straight  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue 
As  hazel-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  their  kernels. 

Shakspeare. 

"  Kathaeine,  Kathaviue — where  is  Katharine  Ogilvie  ?" 

This  call  resounded  from  the  entrance-hall  of  an  old  fam- 
ily mansion,  in  wliich,  between  the  twilight  and  moonlight 
of  a  December  evening,  a  group  of  young  people  were  as- 
sembled. 

"  Where  is  she  ? — why,  staying  to  adorn  herself,  of 
course,"  said  a  "  young  lady,"  the  type  par  excelleiice  of 
that  numerous  class;  being  pretty-faced, pretty-spoken,  and 
pretty-mannered.  "  Was  there  ever  a  girl  of  sixteen  a\  ho 
did  not  spend  two  hours  at  the  least  in  dressing  for  her 
first  evening  party?     I  know  I  did." 

"  Very  likely,"  muttered  a  rather  fine-looking  yoimg  man 
who  stood  at  the  door.  "  You  do  the  same  now,  Bella. 
But  Katharine  is  not  one  of  your  sort." 

The  first  speaker  tossed  her  head.  "  That  is  a  doubtful! 
compliment.  Pray,  Mr.  Hugh  Ogilvie,  is  it  meant  for  your 
cousin  Katharine,  or  your  cousin  Bella  ?"  And  Miss  Isa- 
bella Worsley,  shaking  her  multitudinous  ringlets,  looked 
up  in  his  face  with  what  she  doubtless  thought  a  most  be- 
witching air  of  espi^glerie. 

But  the  young  man  was  quite  unmoved.  He  was  ap- 
parently a  simple  soul — Mr.  Hugh  Ogilvie — too  simple  for 
such  fascinations.     "  I  wish  some  of  you  children  would  go 


6  THE    OGILVIES. 

and  fetch  your  cousin.  Uncle  and  aunt  are  quite  ready; 
and  Katharine  knows  her  father  will  not  endure  to  be  kept 
waiting,  even  by  herself." 

"It  is  all  your  fault,  cousin  Hugh,"  interposed  one  of  the 
smaller  fry  which  composed  the  Christmas  family-party 
assembled  at  Summerwood  Park.  "  I  saw  Katharine  stay- 
ing to  tie  up  the  flowei's  you  sent  her.  I  told  her  how 
scarce  they  were,  and  how  you  rode  over  the  country  all 
this  morning  in  search  of  them,"  continued  the  wicked, 
long-tongued  little  imp  of  a  boy,  causing  Hugh  to  turn 
very  red  and  Avalk  angrily  away — and  consequently  win- 
ning an  approving  glance  from  the  elder  sister  of  all  the 
juvenile  brood,  Isabella  Worsley. 

"  Really,  Hugh,  Avhat  a  blessing  of  a  cousin  you  must 
be !"  observed  the  latter,  following  him  to  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  where  he  stood  restlessly  beating  his  heel  upon 
the  stone  steps.  "  One  quite  envies  Katharine  in  having 
you  so  constantly  at  Summerwood.  Why,  it  is  better  for 
her  than  possessing  half  a  dozen  brothers,  isn't  it,  now? 
And  I  dare  say  you  find  her  worth  a  dozen  of  your  sister 
Eleanor." 

Hugh  made  no  audible  answer  except  beginning  a  long 
low  whistle — sportsman-fashion. 

"  I  declare,  he  is  calling  for  Katharine  as  he  does  for  Juno 
—how  very  flattering  !"  cried  Isabella,  laughing.  "  Really, 
Hugh,  this  sort  of  behavior  does  not  at  all  match  with  that 
elegant  evening  costume,  which,  by-the-by,  I  have  not  yet 
sufliciently  admired." 

"I  wish  heartily  I  were  out  of  it,"  muttered  Hugh.  "I 
had  rather  a  great  deal  put  on  my  shooting-jacket  and  go 
after  wild  ducks  than  start  for  this  dull  party  at  Mrs. 
Lancaster's.  Nothing  should  have  persuaded  me  to  it  ex- 
cept— " 

"  Except  Katharine.     But  here  she  comes  !" 

At  this  moment  a  young  girl  descended  the  stairs.  Now, 
whatever  the  poets  may  say,  there  is  not  a  more  uncom- 
fortable and  unprepossessing  age  than  "sweet  sixteen." 
The  character  and  manners  are  then  usually  alike  unformed 


THE    OGILYIES.  1 

— the  graceful  frankness  of  childhood  is  lost,  and  the  calm 
dignity  of  womanhood  has  not  yet  been  gained.  Katha- 
rine Ogilvie  was  exactly  in  this  transition  state,  in  both 
mind  and  person.  She  had  outgrown  the  roundness  of 
early  youth ;  and  her  tall  thin  figure,  without  being  pos- 
itively awkward,  bore  a  ludicrous  resemblance — as  the 
short,  plump  Miss  Worsley  often  remarked — to  a  lettuce 
run  to  seed,  or  a  hyacinth  that  toill  stretch  out  its  long 
lanky  leaves  with  an  obstinate  determination  not  to  flower. 
This  attenuated  appearance  was  increased  by  the  airy 
evening  dress  she  wore — a  half-mourning  frock,  exhibiting 
her  thin  neck  and  long  arms,  tlie  slenderncss  of  which 
caused  her  otherwise  well-formed  hands  to  seem  somewhat 
dispropoi-tioned.  Her  features  were  regular  and  pleasing ; 
but  her  dark — almost  sallow — complexion  prevented  their 
attracting  the  notice  which  their  classical  form  deserved. 
The  girl  had,  however,  one  beauty,  which,  Avhcn  she  did 
chance  to  lift  up  her  long  lashes — a  circumstance  by  no 
means  frequent — was  almost  startling  in  its  efiect.  Kath- 
arine's eyes  were  magnificent ;  of  the  darkest  yet  most 
limpid  haze.  Therein  lay  the  chief  expression  of  her  face ; 
and  often,  when  the  rest  of  the  features  were  in  apparent 
repose,  these  strange  eyes  were  suddenly  lifted  up,  reveal- 
ing such  a  world  of  enthusiasm,  passion,  and  tenderness, 
that  her  whole  form  seemed  lighted  up  into  beauty. 

"  Come  here,  Katharine,  and  let  ns  all  have  a  look  at 
you  !"  said  Isabella,  drawing  her  shrinking  cousin  under 
the  light  of  the  hall  lamp.  "Well,  you  are  dressed  tolera- 
bly to-night ;  your  hair  is  neat  and  pretty  enough."  It 
was,  indeed,  very  lovely,  of  a  rich  purple-black  hue,  its 
silken  masses  being  most  gracefully  folded  round  her  small 
head.  "But,  Katharine,  child,  what  makes  you  so  pale? 
You  ought  to  be  delighted  at  going  to  this  grand  soiree ; 
I  only  wish  I  had  been  invited  in  your  stead." 

"  So  do  I,  too.     Indeed,  Bella,  it  would  have  been  much 

pleasanter  for  me  to  stay  at  home,"  said  Katharine,  in  a 

low,  timid  voice,  whose  music  was  at  least  equal  to  the 

beauty  of  her  eyes. 

A  2 


8  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  You  little  simpleton  to  say  so  !  But  I  don't  believe  a 
word." 

"  You  may  believe  her  or  not,  just  as  you  like,  Miss  Bella 
• — nobody  minds,"  answered  Hugh,  rather  angrily,  as  he 
drew  his  young  cousin's  arm  through  his  own.  "  Come, 
Katharine,  don't  be  frightened,  I'll  take  care  of  you  ;  and 
we  will  manage  to  get  through  this  formidable  literary 
soiree  tosxether." 

She  clung  to  him  with  a  grateful  and  aifectionate  look, 
which  would  certainly  once  more  have  roused  Isabella's 
acrid  tongue  had  not  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie  appeared.  Aft- 
er them  followed  a  light-footed  graceful  girl  in  deep  mourn- 
ing. She  carried  a  warm  shawl,  which  she  wrapped  closely 
round  Katharine. 

"There's  a  good,  thoughtful  little  Nelly,"  said  Hugh, 
while  Katharine  turned  round  with  a  quick  impulse  and 
kissed  her.  But  she  only  said  "Good-night,  dear  Eleanor" 
— for  her  j^oung  heart  had  fluttered  strangely  throughout 
all  this  evening.  However,  there  was  no  time  to  pause 
over  doubts  and  trepidations,  since  her  father  and  mother 
were  already  in  the  carriage ;  and  thither  she  was  herself 
hurried  by  Hugh,  Avith  an  anxious  care  and  tenderness 
that  still  farther  excited  Isabella's  envious  indignation. 

"It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  an  only  daughter  and  an  heiress," 
thought  she.  "  But  one  can  easily  see  how  the  case  will 
end.  Hugh  thinks,  of  course,  that  he  may  as  well  get  the 
estate  with  the  title ;  and  uncle  Ogilvie  will  be  glad  enough 
to  keep  both  in  the  family,  even  if  Hugh  is  not  quite  so  rich 
as  Croesus.  I  wonder  how  much  money  old  Sir  James  will 
leave  him,  though.  Anyhow,  it  is  a  good  match  for  a  little 
ugly  thing  like  Katharine.  But  the  husband  she  gets  will 
make  matters  even — for  Hugh  Ogilvie  is  a  commonplace, 
stupid  boor.  I  would  not  have  married  him  for  the 
world." 

Miss  Worsley's  anger  had  probably  affected  her  memory, 
since  she  came  to  pay  this  visit  to  her  maternal  grandfather 
with  the  firm  determination  so  to  "  play  her  cards"  as  re- 
garded Hugh,  that  on  her  departure  she  might  have  the 


THE    OGILVIES.  9 

certainty  of  one  day  revisiting  Summerwood  as  its  future 
mistress. 

Let  us — thinkinor  of  the  fearful  number  of  her  class  who 
sully  and  degrade  the  pure  ideal  of  womanhood  —  look 
mournfully  on  this  girl.  She  had  grown  Avise  too  soon — 
wise  in  the  world's  evil  sense.  With  her,  love  had  been 
regarded  alternately  as  a  light  jest  and  as  a  sentimental 
pretence,  at  an  age  when  she  could  not  understand  its 
character  and  ought  scarcely  to  have  heard  its  name ;  and 
when  the  time  came  for  the  full  heart  of  womanhood  to  re- 
spond to  the  mystic,  universal  touch,  there  was  no  answer. 
The  one  holy  feeling  had  been  frittered  away  into  a  num- 
ber of  small  fancies,  until  Isabella,  now  fully  emerged  from 
her  boarding-school  romance,  believed  what  her  mother 
told  her,  that  "  a  girl  should  never  fall  in  love  till  she  is 
asked  to  marry,  and  then  make  the  best  match  she  can." 
And  until  this  desirable  event  should  happen — which,  at 
five-and-twenty,  seemed  farther  than  ever  from  her  earnest 
longings  —  Miss  Worsley  amused  herself  by  carrying  on 
passing  flirtations  with  every  agreeable  young  man  she 
met. 

But  while  Isabella's  vain  and  Avorldly  mind  was  thus 
judging  by  its  own  baser  motives  the  very  different  na- 
ture of  Katharine  Ogilvie,  the  latter  sat  calmly  by  Hugh's 
side,  enjoying  the  dreamy  motion  of  the  carriage,  and  not 
disposed  to  murmur  at  the  silence  of  its  occupants,  which 
gave  her  full  liberty  to  indulge  in  thought. 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  at  last  observed  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  trying 
to  make  the  most  original  observation  she  could,  in  order 
to  rouse  her  husband,  who  was  always  exceedingly  cross 
after  a  doze — a  circumstance  which  she  naturally  wished 
to  prevent,  if  possible.  A  "humph"  answered  her  obser- 
vation. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  will  get  colder  still  if  you  go  to 
sleep,  Mr.  Ogilvie  ?"  pursued  the  lady. 

"  Pray  suffer  me  to  decide  that.  It  was  very  foolish  of 
us  to  go  to  this  party,  all  the  way  to  London,  on  such  a 
wintry  night." 


10  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  know  Katharine  must  be  brought 
out  some  time  or  other — and  Mrs.  Lancaster's  soiree  was 
such  an  excellent  opportunity  for  her,  since  we  can  not 
have  a  ball  at  home  on  account  of  poor  Sir  James.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  knows  all  the  scientific  and  literary  world — her 
parties  are  most  brilliant — it  is  a  first-rate  introduction  for 
any  young  girl." 

Poor  Katharine  felt  lier  timidity  come  over  her  with 
added  painfulness,  and  heartily  wislied  herself  on  the  otto- 
man at  her  gnindlathcr's  feet,  instead  of  on  her  way  to  this 
terrible  ordeal.  But  Hugh  gave  her  hand  an  encouraging 
pressure,  and  she  felt  comforted.  So  she  listened  patiently 
to  her  mother's  enumeration  of  all  the  celebrated  people 
whom  she  would  be  sure  to  meet.  After  which  the  good 
lady,  oppressed  by  her  somnolent  husband's  example,  leaned 
her  head  back  so  as  not  to  disarrange  her  elegant  cap,  and 
fell  asleep  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  carriage  rolled  through  the  unfrequented  roads  that 
mark  the  environs  of  the  metropolis.  Katharine  sat  watch- 
ing tlie  light  which  the  carriage-lamps  threw  as  they  passed 
— illumining  for  a  moment  the  formal,  leafless  hedges,  until 
every  trace  of  rurality  was  lost  in  the  purely  suburban 
character  of  the  villa-studded  road.  The  young  girl's  vis- 
ion and  the  most  outward  fold  of  her  thoughts  received  all 
these  thino;s;  but  her  inner  mind  was  all  the  while  revolv- 
ing  widely  difterent  matters,  and  chiefly  this  unseen  world 
of  society,  about  which  she  had  formed  various  romantic 
ideas,  the  predominant  one  being  that  it  was  a  brilliant, 
dazzling  compound  of  the  scenes  described  in  Bulwer's 
"Godolphin,"  and  Mrs.  Gore's  novels,  ^x<5s/?7i. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  imagine  a  girl  more  utterly  ig- 
norant of  the  realities  of  life  than  was  Katharine  Ogilvie 
at  sixteen.  Delicate  health  had  made  her  childhood  soli- 
tary ;  and  though  fortune  had  bestowed  on  her  troops  of 
cousin-playfellows,  she  had  known  little  of  any  of  them  ex- 
cepting Hugh  and  his  sister.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  so- 
ciety or  of  the  amusements  of  life,  for  her  rather  elderly 
parents  rarely  mingled  in  the  world.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie 


THE    OGILVIES.  11 

were  a  pattern  couple  for  individual  excellence  and  mutual 
observance  of  matrimonial  proprieties.  United  in  middle 
life,  their  existence  flowed  on  in  a  placid  stream,  deep,  si- 
lent, untroubled ;  their  aflection  toward  each  other  and  to- 
ward their  only  child  being  rather  passive  than  active — 
though  steady,  very  undemonstrative.  So  Katharine,  whom 
nature  had  cast  in  a  difterent  mould,  became,  as  the  confid- 
ing and  clinging  helplessness  of  childhood  departed,  more 
and  more  shut  up  within  herself — looking  to  no  other  for 
amusement,  seeking  no  sharer  either  in  her  pleasures  or  in 
her  cares.  A  life  like  this  sometimes  educes  strength  and 
originality  of  character,  but  more  often  causes  a  morbid- 
ness offeelino-  which  contents  itself  throughout  existence 
with  dreaming,  not  acting.  Or  if,  at  length,  long-restrained 
emotions  do  break  out,  it  is  with  a  terrible  flood  that  sweeps 
away  all  before  it. 

Katharine  was  by  no  means  sentimental ;  for  the  term 
implies  affectation,  of  which  no  stain  had  ever  marred  her 
nature.  But  her  whole  character  Avas  imbued  with  the 
wildest,  deepest  romance  :  the  romance  which  comes  in- 
stinctively to  a  finely-constituted  mind  left  to  form  its 
own  ideal  of  what  is  good  and  true.  Her  solitary  child- 
hood had  created  an  imaginary  world  in  which  she  lived 
and  moved  side  by  side  with  its  inhabitants.  Tlies'e  were 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  books  which  she  had  read — ■ 
a  most  heterogeneous  mass  of  literature — and  the  beings 
who  peopled  her  own  fanciful  dreams. 

One  thing  only  was  wanting  to  crown  her  romance. 
Though  she  had  actually  counted  sixteen  years,  Katluirine 
had  never  even  fancied  herself  "in  love" — except,  perhaps, 
with  "Zanoni."  A  few  vague  day-dreams  and  niglitly  fan- 
cies had  of  late  floated  over  her  spirit,  causing  her  to  yearn 
for  some  companionship  higher  and  nobler  than  any  she 
had  yet  known — something  on  which  she  might  expend 
not  merely  her  warm  home-aftections,  already  fully  be- 
stowed on  her  parents  and  on  Hugh,  but  the  love  of  her 
soul,  the  worship  of  her  heart  and  intellect  combined. 
This  longing  she  had  of  late  tried  to  satisfy  by  changing 


12  THE    OGILVIES. 

her  ideal  hero,  on  whom  she  had  hung  every  possible  and 
impossible  perfection,  for  a  real  human  being — that  young 
poet  whose  life  was  itself  a  jDoem,  Keats.  Plis  likeness, 
which  Katharine  had  hung  up  in  her  room,  haunted  her 
perpetually ;  and  many  a  time  she  sat  watching  it  until 
she  felt  for  this  dead  and  buried  poet  a  sensation  very  like 
the  love  of  which  she  had  read — the  strange  delicious  se- 
cret which  was  to  her  as  yet  only  a  name. 

And  thus,  half  a  woman  and  half  a  child,  Katharine 
Ogilvie  was  about  to  pass  out  of  her  ideal  world,  so  fa- 
miliar and  so  dear,  into  the  real  world,  of  which  she  knew 
nothing.  No  wonder  that  she  was  silent  and  disposed  to 
muse ! 

"Wake  up,  little  cousin ;  what  ^re  you  thinking  about?" 
said  Hugh,  suddenly. 

Katharine  started — and  her  reverie  Avas  broken.  The 
painful  consciousness  that  Hugh  might  smile  at  her  for 
having  been  "in  the  clouds,"  as  he  called  these  fits  of  ab- 
straction, caused  the  color  to  rise  rapidly  in  her  cheek. 

"  What  made  you  imagine  I  was  thinking  at  all  ?" 

"Merely  because  you  have  been  perfectly  silent  for  the 
last  hour.  Your  papa  and  mamma  have  had  time  to  fall 
comfortably  asleep,  and  I  have  grown  quite  weary  and 
cross  through  not  having  the  pleasant  talk  that  we  prom- 
ised ourselves  this  morning." 

"  Dear  Hugh  !  it  was  very  stupid  of  me." 

"  Not  at  all,  dear  Katharine,"  Hugh  answered,  echoing 
the  adjective  with  an  emphasis  that  deepened  its  meaning 
considerably.  "  Not  at  all — if  you  will  now  tell  me  what 
occupied  your  thoughts  so  much." 

But  Katharine,  sincere  as  Avas  her  affection  for  her 
cousin,  felt  conscious  that  he  Avould  not  understand  one 
half  of  the  fanciful  ideas  which  had  passed  through  her 
brain  during  that  long  interval  of  silence.  So  her  reply 
was  the  usual  compromise  which  people  adopt  in  such 
cases, 

"  I  was  thinking  of  several  things — amongst  others,  of 
Mrs,  Lancaster's  party." 


THE    OGILVIES.  13 

Hugh  looked  rather  annoyed.  "I  thouglit  you  did  not 
wish  to  go,  and  would  much  ratlier  have  been  left  at 
home  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  the  last,  and  yet  all  this  fortnight  I  have  been 
longing  for  the  day.  Hugh,  did  you  ever  feel  what  it  is 
to  wish  for  any  thing,  and  dream  of  it,  and  wonder  about 
it,  until  Avhen  the  time  came  you  grew  positively  fright- 
ened, and  almost  wished  that  something  would  happen  to 
frustrate  your  first  desire  ?" 

"  Was  this  what  you  have  been  feeling,  Katharine  ?" 

"Perhaps  so — I  hardly  know.  I  enjoyed  the  anticipa- 
tion very  much  until,  from  thinking  of  all  the  wonderful 
people  I  should  meet,  I  began  to  think  about  myself  It 
is  a  bad  thing  to  think  too  much  about  one's  self,  Hugh — 
is  it  not  ?" 

Hugh  assented  abstractedly.  It  always  gave  him  much 
more  pleasure  to  bear  Katharine  talk  than  to  talk  himself; 
and  besides,  his  conversation  was  rarely  either  rapid  or 
brilliant. 

Katharine  went  on. 

"It  was,  after  all,  very  vain  and  foolish  in  me  to  fancy 
that  any  one  I  should  meet  to-night  would  notice  me  in 
the  least.  And  so  I  have  now  come  to  the  determination 
not  to  think  about  myself  or  my  imperfections,  but  to  en- 
joy this  evening  as  much  as  possible.  Tell  me,  what  great 
people  are  we  likely  to  see  ?" 

"There  is  the  Countess   of  A ,  and  Lord  William 

B ,  and  Sir  Vivian  C ,"  said  Hugh,  naming  a  few 

of  the  minor  lights  of  the  aristocracy  who  lend  their  feeble 
radiance  to  middle-class  reunions. 

"I  do  not  call  these  'great  people,'"  answered  Katha- 
rine, in  a  tone  of  disappointment.  "They  are  not  my  he- 
roes and  heroines.  I  want  to  see  great  writers,  great  poets, 
great  painters,"  she  continued,  with  an  energy  that  made 
Hugh  open  his  eyes  to  their  utmost  width. 

"  Well,  well,  you  little  enthusiast,  you  Avill  see  plenty  of 
that  sort  of  people  too." 

"  That  sort  of  people,''^  repeated  Katharine,  in  a  low  tone; 


14  THE    OGILVIES. 

auil  she  shrank  into  herself,  and  was  silent  for  five  min- 
utes. A  feeling  of  passing  A-exation  even  toward  Hugh 
oppressed  her,  until  a  ehance  movement  wafted  toward 
her  the  perfume  of  her  flowers — the  flowers  to  procure 
which  he  had  ridden  for  miles  over  the  country  that  rainy 
morning.  A  trifle  sways  one's  feelings  sometimes,  and 
Katharine's  at  once  turned  toward  Hugh  with  an  almost 
contrite  acknowledgment.  She  sought  an  opportunity  to 
remove  any  painful  impression  that  her  sudden  silence 
miglit  have  given  him. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  almost  at  our  journey's  end,  and 
papa  and  mamma  are  still  asleep.  We  shall  have  very 
little  more  time  for  our  talk,  Hugh  ;  so  make  haste  and 
tell  me  what  occupied  your  thoughts  during  that  long  hour 
of  silence  ?" 

"  Not  now,  dear  Katharine — not  now  !" 

He  spoke — at  once  more  gently  and  more  hurriedly  than 
Hugh  Ogilvie  was  used  to  speak.  Katharine  was  about 
to  repeat  her  question,  when  the  carriage  stopped. 


CHAPTER  n. 

Meanwhile  the  clay  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is  set, 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met. 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time. 
*  *  *  * 

How  many  meet  who  never  yet  have  met, 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget ; 
But  life's  familiar  veil  was  now  withdrawn, 
As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's  dawn. 

Shelley. 

Before  Katharine  had  time  once  more  to  grow  terrified 
nt  the  sudden  realization  of  her  dreams  of  the  world,  she 
found  herself  in  the  brilliant  drawing-rooms  of  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster— following  in  the  wake  of  her  stately  parents,  and 
clinging  with  desperate  energy  to  the  arm  of  her  cousin 


THE    OGILVIES.  15 

Hugh.  Her  eyes,  dazzled  and  pained  by  the  sudden  tran- 
sition from  darkness  to  light,  saw  only  a  moving  mass  of 
gay  attire  which  she  Avas  utterly  unable  to  individualize. 
Her  ear  was  bewildered  by  that  scai'cely  subdued  din  of 
many  voices  which  makes  literary  conversazioni  in  general 
a  sort  of  polite  Babel.  Indeed,  the  young  girl's  outward 
organs  of  observation  were  for  the  time  quite  dazzled  ;  and 
3he  recovered  herself  only  on  hearing  her  mother  say, 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  ray  daugh- 
ter Katharine." 

Now,  ever  since  Mrs.  Ogilvic  had  discovered  an  old 
school-fellow  in  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Lancaster,  Katharine 
had  heard  continually  of  the  lady  in  question.  Every  one 
talked  of  her  as  a  "clever  woman" — "a  blue" — "an  extra- 
ordinary creature" — "  a  woman  of  mind  ;"  and  somehow 
the  girl  had  pictured  to  herself  a  tall,  masculine,  loud-voiced 
dame.  Therefore,  she  was  agreeably  surprised  at  seeing 
before  her  a  lady — certainly  not  pretty,  nor  young  except 
in  her  attire — but,  nevertheless,  graceful  from  her  extreme 
smallness  and  delicacy  of  figure ;  there  was  nothing  outre 
in  her  appearance  except  a  peculiar  style  of  head-dress, 
which  set  off  the  shape  of  her  face  to  much  advantage. 
This  face  was  not  remarkable  for  an  intellectual  expression, 
though  the  features  evidently  perpetually  struggled  to  at- 
tain one.  In  spite  of  her  semi-tragic  glances,  compressed 
lips,  and  fixed  altitudes,  Mrs.  Lancaster  never  could  suc- 
ceed in  appearing  a  genius,  but  was  merely  an  agreeable- 
looking,  stylish  little  lady. 

In  that  character,  Katharine  was  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  her.  She  felt  the  light  touch  of  the  jeweled  fingers,  and 
listened  to  the  blandest  and  best-modulated  welcome  that 
female  lips  could  utter,  until  the  girl's  prevailing  senti- 
ments were  those  of  intense  relief,  deej)  admiration,  and 
undying  gratitude  toward  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

Immediately  afterward,  a  pale  young  man  who  stood  be- 
hind  the  lady  timidly  and  silently  shook  hands  with  Kath- 
arine's parents,  and  then,  to  her  infinite  surprise,  with 
herself. 


16  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman  ?  I  don't  know  him,"  said 
Katharine,  in  a  whisjoer,  to  Hugh.  "  Why  did  not  mamma 
introduce  me — and  why  did  he  not  speak  ?" 

"Oh !  it  is  only  Mr.  Lancaster, Mrs.  Lancaster's  husband," 
answered  Hugh,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile.  "  He 
rarely  speaks  to  any  body,  and  nobody  minds  him  at  all." 

"How  very  odd!"  thought  Katharine:  whose  idea  of  a 
husband — when  the  subject  did  occupy  her  mind — was  of 
some  noble  being  to  whom  the  wife  could  look  up  with 
reverent  admiration,  who  was  always  to  take  the  lead  in 
society,  she  following  after  like  a  loving  shadow,  but  still 
only  a  shadow,  of  himself  Katharine  watched  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster as  she  flitted  about  here  and  there,  all  smiles  and 
conversation,  Avhile  the  silent  husband  retreated  to  a  cor- 
ner; and  she  thought  once  more  how  very  strange  it  was. 
She  expressed  this  to  Hugh  when  after  great  difficulty 
they  at  last  found  a  seat,  and  talked  together  in  that  deep 
quietude  which  is  nowhere  greater  than  in  a  crowded  as- 
sembly of  strangers. 

But  Hugh  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised.  He  had  not 
known  the  Lancasters  long,  he  said,  but  he  believed  they 
were  a  very  happy  couple.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  a  very 
superior  woman ;  and  perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why 
she  took  the  lead  rather  than  her  husband. 

'■'■My  husband  shall  never  be  a  man  inferior  to  myself;  I 
should  not  love  him  at  all  if  I  could  not  worship,  reverence, 
look  up  to  him  in  every  thing,"  said  Katharine,  her  eye 
dilating  and  her  cheek  glowing.  But  when  she  caught 
Hugh's  look  fixed  upon  her  with  intense  astonishment,  she 
suddenly  felt  conscious  that  she  had  said  something  wrong, 
and  shrank  abashed  into  her  corner.  She  was  not  dis- 
turbed ;  for  Hugh  did  not  answer  a  word ;  but  once  or 
twice  she  fancied  she  heard  him  sigh. 

"Ah,  poor  Hugh  !"  thought  Katharine,  "he  imagines  his 
wild  cousin  will  never  mend.  And  yet  I  only  spoke  what 
I  thought.  I  must  not  do  that  any  more.  Perhaps  ray 
thoughts  are  foolish  or  wrong,  since  no  one  seems  to  un- 
derstand them." 


THE    OGILVIES.  17 

And  Katharine,  glad  as  she  had  felt  of  Hugh's  society 
and  protection  in  this  gay  place  of  desolation — for  so  it 
seemed  to  her — experienced  a  feeling  very  like  relief  when 
a  lady  near  them  addressed  her  cousin,  and  occupied  his 
attention  so  that  she  herself  could  sit  still  and  think.  It 
was  an  amusement  to  her  to  watch  the  diiferent  combina- 
tions of  the  kaleidoscope  of  moving  humanity  Avhich  passed 
in  review  before  her ;  looking  at  the  different  individuals, 
speculating  on  their  characters,  or  weaving  little  histories 
for  each.  Katharine  took  most  interest  in  her  own  sex, 
who  at  least  approached  her  idea  of  outward  grace ;  but 
the  "  fine  gentlemen"  of  a  modern  drawing-room  did  not  at 
all  resemble  the  heroes  with  which  the  romance-loving  girl 
had  peopled  her  world.  She  scarcely  bestowed  a  second 
glance  upon  any  of  them. 

At  last,  while  her  eyes  were  vacantly  fixed  on  the  door, 
it  opened  and  admitted — a  gentleman.  One  who — in  this 
instance — truly  deserved  the  name.  Katharine  looked  at 
him :  her  gaze  was  attracted  a  second  time — a  third — un- 
til it  rested  permanently  on  him. 

He  was,  in  truth,  a  man  of  striking  appearance.  Not 
from  his  personal  beauty,  for  there  were  many  handsomer 
in  the  room,  but  from  an  inexpressible  dignity,  composure 
of  manner,  and  grace  of  movement,  to  which  his  tall  figure 
gave  every  advantage.  His  countenance  was  not  disfig- 
ured by  any  of  the  modern  atrocities  of  mustache  and  im- 
perial, no  starched  white  cravat  hid  the  outline  of  his  chin 
and  upper  throat,  and  his  dark  crisped  hair  was  thrown 
back,  giving  a  classic  beauty  to  the  whole  head.  Yet  its 
character  was  neither  Greek  nor  Roman,  but  purely  En- 
glish ;  the  lines  firm,  sharp,  and  rather  marked,  denoted 
one  who  had  seen  much,  felt  much,  and  is  no  longer  young. 
But  no  description  of  features  would  adequately  convey 
an  idea  of  the  nameless  air  which  at  once  impressed  the 
conviction  that  this  man  was  different  to  other  men.  Even 
slight  singularities  of  dress — usually  puerile  and  contempt' 
ible  affectations — were  by  him  made  so  completely  sub- 
servient to  the  wearer,  that  the  most  captious  could  not 
accuse  him  of  conceit  or  eccentricity. 


18  THE    OGILVIES. 

This  was  he  on  wliom  Katharine's  young  eyes  rested  the 
moment  he  entered  the  room.  She  watched  his  face  with 
a  vague  deepening  interest,  feeling  certain  that  she  had 
seen  it  before — it  seemed  so  familiar,  yet  so  new.  His 
form  appeared  at  once  to  individualize  itself  from  every 
other  in  the  room ;  her  eye  followed  it  with  a  pleased  con- 
sciousness that  it  brought  sunshine  wherever  it  moved. 
Poor  Katharine  !  The  world  may  laugh  as  it  will  at  "first 
impressions" — 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all — 

but  there  are  in  human  nature  strange  and  sudden  im- 
jDulses,  which, "though  mysterious  in  their  exercise,  and  still 
more  so  in  their  causes,  are  nevertheless  realities. 

Katharine  watched  this  man  for  a  long  time.  Sometimes, 
w^hen  he  came  nearer,  she  listened  and  caught  a  few  tones 
of  his  voice :  they  were  like  his  face,  calm,  thoughtful,  ex- 
pressive, and  they  went  to  her  heart  like,  the  music  of  some 
dear  olden  song. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  so  earnestly,  Katharine  ?" 

Katharine  had  no  reason  to  conceal  her  thoughts,  so  she 
frankly  pointed  out  the  object  of  her  contemplation. 

"Look  at  him,  Hugh  !     Has  he  not  a  pleasant  face?" 

Hugh  could  not  see  any  such  face — or  would  not. 

"  There  !  standing  by  the  lady  at  the  harp,  I  have 
watched  him  a  loner  time.  I  feel  sure  I  must  have  seen 
him  somewhere  before." 

"In  the  clouds,  very  likely,"  answered  her  cousin,  with 
a  sharpness  rare  to  his  quiet  manner.  "You  could  not 
have  seen  him  any  where  else,  for  he  has  but  just  come 
from  abroad.  I  have  seen  him  here  once  before ;  but  no 
one  excepting  my  romantic  little  cousin  ever  called  Lyne- 
don  handsome." 

"  Lynedon — Lynedon.     Is  that  his  name  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  that  is  all  I  know  about  him.  But,  Katha- 
rine—  there,  your  eyes  are  wandering  after  him  again. 
Why,  you  will  be  noticed  if  you  look  at  him  so  much, 
even  though  you  do  think  him  handsome." 

"I  do  not,"  said  Katharine,  quietly;  "but  his  face  seems 


THE    OGILYIES.  19 

as  if  I  knew  it.  It  is  pleasant  to  me  to  look  at  liim,  as  it  is 
to  look  at  a  picture  or  a  statue.  However,  I  will  not  do  so 
if  it  is  wrong,  oi",  at  all  events,  rude.  I  do  not  know  the 
world  so  well  as  you,  dear  cousin." 

Hugh's  countenance  brightened,  and  he  said  no  more. 
Meanwhile,  Katharine  persevered  for  at  least  five  minutes 
in  looking  in  the  direction  exactly  opposite  to  Mr.  Lyne- 
don.  At  last,  casting  her  eyes  in  the  mirror,  she  saw  the 
reflection  of  his  face  as  he  stood  silent  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  room.  That  face  in  its  thoughtful  repose  revealed 
to  her  the  vague  likeness  which  had  at  once  made  it  seem 
familiar  and  dear.  In  character  it  strongly  resembled  the 
head  of  Keats,  which  had  been  her  admiration  for  so  many 
months.  As  the  fancy  struck  her,  Katharine's  cheek  flushed, 
and  a  strange  thrill  shot  through  her  heart.  She  looked  at 
him  again — and  still  the  likeness  seemed  to  increase.  It 
was  a  pleasure  so  new ! — and  with  the  aid  of  that  friendly 
mirror  surely  there  could  be  nothing  wrong  in  thus  watch- 
ing the  living  semblance  of  her  poet !  So  Katharine  gazed 
and  gazed,  utterly  unconscious  that  she  was  drinking  in  the 
first  draught  of  that  cup  which  is  ofiered  to  every  human 
lip :  to  some,  of  honey — to  others,  of  gall. 

Lynedon  still  kept  close  to  the  harp,  until  a  lady  sat 
down  to  play  and  sing.  Her  voice  was  touching  and 
beautiful,  and  its  pathos  hushed  even  the  noisy  murmur 
around.  A  foppish,  affected  young  man  at  one  side  of  the 
harp  went  into  ecstasies  of  rapture.  Lynedon  stood  on  the 
other  side — his  figure  drawn  up  to  its  utmost  height  and 
his  arms  folded,  intently  listening.  His  head  Avas  bent, 
and  half  in  shadow;  but  once  Katharine  thought  she  saw 
the  lips  tremble  with  deep  feeling.  She  did  not  wonder, 
for  the  tears  were  in  her  own  eyes. 

"Divine,  enchanting!  Miss  Trevor,  you  sing  like  an 
angel,"  cried  the  young  dandy,  taking  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief 

Lynedon  did  not  say  a  single  word,  but  he  oflTered  his 
hand  to  lead  the  musician  to  her  seat.  She  seemed  a  shy, 
timid  creature,  neither  fashionable  nor  beautiful.    As  they 


20  THE    OGILYIES. 

passed,  Katharine  heard  him  say  in  answer  to  some  remark 
of  hers, 

"Yes,  it  gave  me  pleasure.  It  is  a  dear  old  song  to  me. 
I  had  a  little  sister  who  used  to  sing  it  once.  She  had  a 
sweet  voice,  very  like  yours." 

Katharine  longed  for  an  angel's  voice,  that  she  might 
have  sung  that  song.  She  wondered  if  his  sister  lived  ; 
but  no,  from  the  tone  in  which  he  sj^oke  of  her  she  must 
be  dead.  He  was  surely  good  and  affectionate,  since  he 
loved  his  sister.  How  well  she  must  have  loved  him! 
Katharine  had  already  woven  out  the  whole  romance  of 
this  stranger's  life  —  and  yet  she  did  not  even  know  his 
Christian  name,  and  he  had  not  once  spoken  to  or  even 
looked  at  her.  Only  some  time  after,  as  she  was  in  the 
act  of  bidding  adieu  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  Katharine's  flowers 
fell,  and  Mi\  Lynedon,  who  stood  beside  the  hostess,  stooped 
and  gave  them  into  the  young  girl's  hand.  It  was  a  trifling 
act  of  courtesy,  but  he  did  it  as  he  did  every  thing  else, 
more  gracefully  than  other  men.  He  would  have  done 
the  same,  apparently,  to  any  woman,  old  or  young,  ugly  or 
pretty.  Katharine  felt  that  he  had  not  even  looked  in  her 
face.  She  experienced  no  surprise  or  wounded  vanity,  for 
she  never  remembered  herself  at  all.  She  only  thought 
of  him. 

"Well,  it  has  been  a  pleasant  evening,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
when  they  were  again  in  the  carriage.  "Do  you  think  so, 
Hugh  ?" 

Hugh  did  indeed ;  for  there  was  still  the  long  quiet  ride 
home,  with  Katharine  close  beside  him,  ready  to  talk  over 
every  thing,  as  she  had  proposed. 

"  And  you,  Katharine,  love  ;  have  you  liked  your  en- 
trance into  society  ?"  inquired  the  mother. 

"  Yes,"  said  Katharine,  gently  but  briefly.  She  did  not 
seem  half  so  much  disposed  to  talk  as  Hugh  expected. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  her  husband  to  spend  a  day 
with  us ;  was  I  right,  Mr.  Ogilvie  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear;  ask  whom  you  please.  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster is  a  woman  of  very  good  breeding ;  and  besides,  for 


THE    OGILVIES.  21 

an  intellectual  lady  and  a  lover  of  antiquities,  there  are 
many  curious  and  remarkable  sights  near  Summerwood 
Park.     Of  course  she  will  come  ?" 

"Not  just  at  present,  as  she  has  a  friend  staying  there, 
a  Mr.  Lynedon.  I  did  not  knoAV  whether  you  would  like 
him  to  be  included." 

"By  all  means,  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  I  liappened  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  talk  with  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  —  a  clever,  sensible 
young  man ;  has  no  conceit  about  him,  like  the  puppies  of 
our  day.  He  is  trying  to  get  into  Parliament — admires 
Sir  Robert,  and  is  particularly  well  read  on  the  currency 
question.     By  all  means  invite  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon." 

Katharine's  ears  drank  in  all  this.  Here  was  new  mat- 
ter added  to  her  little  romance.  He  was  about  to  enter 
Parliament — a  noble  career !  Katharine  was  sure  he  would 
rise  to  be  a  great  statesman  —  a  second  Canning.  And 
then,  his  Christian  name  was  Paul. 

Most  young  girls  think  much  of  a  Christian  name :  in- 
deed, more  or  less  so  does  every  body.  We  have  all  a  sort 
of  ideal  nomenclature ;  names  that  please  us  by  their  eu- 
phony, or  else  make  us  love  them  for  their  associations. 
Some  seem  suited  to  peculiar  cliaracters ;  and  when  we 
meet  the  impersonations  of  them,  we  are  fain  to  apply  our 
fanciful  ideal,  saying,  "  Ah  !  there's  a  bright-faced,  clear- 
hearted  Clara" — or,  "This  girl  is  surely  a  Mary,  sweet, 
gentle  Mary" — or,  "  Such  a  one  is  the  very  beau-ideal  of 
a  Walter,  a  Henry,  or  an  Edmund  !" 

Katharine  felt  a  painful  twinge,  excusable  in  a  romantic 
damsel  of  sixteen,  when  she  found  that  her  hero  was  called 
Paul. 

"  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  coming  to  Summerwood,"  observed 
Hugh,  with  the  faintest  shade  of  annoyance  perceptible  in 
his  tone  ;  "  then,  Katliarine,  you  will  have  a  splendid  op- 
portunity of  admiring  your  handsome  hero — and  of  talking 
to  him  too." 

"A  man  like  Mr.  Lynedon  would  never  think  of  talking 
to  such  a  child  as  I,"  answered  Katharine,  in  a  low  tone. 
"And,  Hugh,  I  believe  I  told  you  before  that  1  do  not  think 


22  Tim    OGILVIES. 

him  handsome.  There  is  nothing  strikingly  \jeautiful  in 
his  features ;  indeed,  I  do  not  consider  them  any  better 
than  yours." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hugh,  good-humoredly.  "Then 
■what  made  you  notice  him  so  much  V" 

"I  can  hardly  tell,  excepting  that  there  seemed  in  his  face 
something  more  than  beauty — something  I  never  saw  before 
in  any  other.  I  can  not  describe  what  it  was,  the  sensa- 
tion it  gave  me  was  so  peculiar.  But  pleasant — yes,  I  think 
I  had  more  pleasure  in  looking  at  his  face  than  at  any  I  ever 
saw  in  all  my  life." 

"  Katharine,  I  shall  be  quite  jealous  soon." 

"  You  need  not.  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  is  not  my  cousin, 
my  old  playfellow,  and  friend.  And  if  he  were,  I  think  I 
should  be  too  much  afraid  of  him  ever  to  feel  for  him  the 
same  aifection  that  I  bear  to  you  and  Eleanor." 

Hugh  looked  joyfully  in  his  cousin's  eyes:  they  were 
calm  and  clear.  They  did  not  droop,  or  turn  from  his. 
There  was  not  a  feeling  in  Katharine's  heart  that  she 
wished  to  hide. 

"What  are  you  and  Katharine  talking  about?"  said  Mr. 
Ooilvie,  rousinij  himself  from  one  of  his  usual  taciturn 
moods.  "  We  can  not  hear  a  word  on  this  side  of  the 
carriage,  and  the  lamps  are  so  dim  that  we  can  hardly  see 
your  faces." 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  observed  Mrs.  Ogilvic,  "young 
I^eople  generally  like  talking  over  a  party,  and  Hugh  and 
Katharine  seem  always  to  have  plenty  to  say  to  one  an- 
other." And  a  quiet  smile  passed  over  the  matron's  face, 
showing  how  skilled  she  thought  herself  in  the  womanly 
acquirement  of  reading  liearts.  And  when,  an  hour  after, 
that  worthy  lady  and  aftectionate  mother  lay  cogitating 
over  the  past  evening,  she  thought  with  satisfaction  that 
her  Katherine  had  not  seemed  the  least  dazzled  by  her  first 
sight  of  "  the  world,"  and  appeared  to  care  for  the  atten- 
tions of  no  one  save  that  good,  kind  cousin  Hugh,  Avho 
would  one  day  make  her  such  an  excellent  husband. 

While,  in  the  next  chamber,  Katharine  was  dreaming 


THK    OGILVIES.  23 

one  of  her  wild  fantastic  dreams,  wherein  she  herself  was 
transformed  successively  into  the  heroine  of  several  of  her 
pet  romances.  And  somehow,  whenever  she  looked  into 
the  face  of  the  dearly-loved  dream-hero,  it  always  changed 
to  the  same  likeness — the  deep  clear  eyes  and  wavy  hair 
of  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  bis  glowing  hands, 
Every  moment  lightly  shaken,  ran  it-elfin  golden  sands. 
Love  took  np  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Tennyson. 

The  mistress  of  Summerwood  was  a  living  homily  on  the 
blessings  of  early  rising.  Every  morning  she  took  her  place 
before  the  old-fashioned  silver  urn  exactly  as  the  clock 
struck  eight.  She  had  done  the  same  for  some  eighteen 
years,  during  which  her  fair  serene  countenance  slowly 
settled  into  that  of  a  matron  of  fifty-two.  But  it  still  re- 
tained its  fresh,  unwrinkled  look,  as  though  the  years  which 
had  passed  over  it  had  been  counted  by  summers  only. 
And  certainly,  since  her  marriage,  life  had  been  one  long 
summer  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

Her  husband  would  rather  have  missed  the  daylight 
than  her  pleasant  face  at  his  breakfast-board ;  and,  vv^inter 
or  summer,  there  could  not  be  a  more  cheerful  sight  than 
the  group  assembled  round  the  early  meal  at  Summer- 
wood.  For  Mr.  Ogilvie  would  allow  "no  nonsense"  of  late 
rising ;  and  even  his  niece  Isabella  was  forced  to  give  up 
her  fine  lady  airs,  and  descend  at  proper  time  with  the 
young  brothers  and  sisters  of  whom  she  was  the  unwilling 
guardian.  The  family  circle  on  the  morning  after  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  party  was  completed  by  Hugh,  with  his  bright, 
merry  "  morning  face,"  and  Eleanor,  always  serene,  though 
over  her  still  hung  the  shadoAV  of  a  grief  (now  some  months 
past),thatof  a  mother's  loss.   Katharine,  usually  the  blithest 

B 


24  TUE    OGILYIES. 

of  the  group,  seemed  on  this  particular  day  rather  thought- 
fully inclined.  Isabella  attributed  the  fact  to  "  the  elfects 
of  dissipation,"  and  laughed  at  her  cousin  for  being  so 
country-bred  as  to  feel  overwhelmed  with  fatigue  by  only 
one  party  on  the  same  night. 

"If  you  lived  the  life  that  I  do,  what  would  become  of 
you,  Katharine?  Tou  would  be  dead  in  six  months.  You 
look  half  dead  now." 

"  I  really  do  not  feel  so." 

"Then  why  drink  your  coiFee  with  such  a  sentimental 
air?  Did  you  meet  any  of  your  poetical  heroes  among 
the  great  geniuses  wdio,  as  Hugh  says,  congregate  at  Mrs, 
Lancaster's?  Pray  tell  us  whom  you  fell  in  love  with  last 
night." 

This  was  s})oken  in  an  under  tone,  and  with  a  meaning 
smile  that  made  Katharine's  cheek  flush  against  her  will. 
Her  simplicity  took  in  solemn  earnest  all  the  careless  jests 
of  this  young  lady,  whose  first  lessons  in  the  art  of  love 
had  been  received  at  that  source  of  all  evil— a  fashionable 
boarding-school. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Isabella,"  was  her  hurried  re- 
ply; while  Hugh  darted  across  the  table  the  most  frown- 
ing look  his  good-tempered  face  could  assume. 

""  I  think,  Bella,  you  might  let  Katliarine  eat  lier  break- 
fast in  peace  for  once  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hugh  ;  don't  quite  kill  me  for  troub- 
ling your  dearly-beloved  cousin  with  my  unwarrantable 
cuSosity.  But,  as  her  breakfast  is  nearly  ended,  I  should 
like  to  hear  from  her  a  little  about  last  night,  if  you  will 
kindly  allow  her  to  make  the  exertion." 

Hugh  colored  with  vexation  ;  and  Katharine,  resigning 
herself  to  her  fate,  sighed  out, "  Well,  Bella,  of  what  must 

I  tell  ?" 

"  Oh,  in  the  first  place,  of  the  dresses." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  did  not  notice  one.  Indeed,  1 
am  afraid  I  do  not  care  for  dress  as  much  as  I  ought,"  con- 
tinued Katharine,  in  a  deprecating  tone.  Her  sensitive 
and  unformed  mind  was  ever  painfully  alive  to  ridicule  j 


THE    OGILVIES.  25 

and  this  weakness  constantly  subjected  her  to  the  influence 
of  the  worldly  Isabelhi.  But  Eleanor  Ogilvie  came  to  her 
aid. 

"  Katharine,  I  will  relieve  Bella  and  turn  catechist.  Did 
you  see  any  of  those  'celebrities,'  as  you  call  them,  about 
whom  you  have  been  thinking  and  wondering  so  much  all 
the  week?" 

"Hugh  pointed  out  several,  and  it  was  very  interesting 
to  watch  tliera  ;  but — " 

"  But  they  were  not  quite  what  you  expected — is  it  not 
so  V" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Katharine,  doubtfully,  as  she  took  ad- 
vantage of  a  general  move  from  table,  and  drew  near  the 
window,  Eleanor  following.  "I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
people  whose  books  we  read  rarely  come  uj)  to  our  expec- 
tations— at  least,  not  exactly.  I  have  heard  this,  and  last 
night  I  found  it  out  for  myself.     Why  is  it,  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  smiled.  There  was  something  peculiarly  sweet 
and  expressive  in  Eleanor  Ogilvie's  smile. 

"Nay,  you  must  not  expect  me  to  answer  a  question 
which  involves  the  solving  of  a  problem — I,  who  am  little 
older  than  yourself,  and  have  scarcely  seen  more  of  the 
world.  But  I  imagine  the  reason  to  be  tliis,  that  most 
men  write  out  in  their  books  their  inner  selves  —  their 
deepest  and  pui'est  feelings  —  and  Ave  form  our  ideal  of 
them  from  that.  Wlien  we  meet  them  in  the  world,  we 
see  only  the  outer  self — perhaps  but  a  rougli  and  clumsy 
shell — and  it  often  takes  some  time  and  a  great  deal  of 
patience  before  we  can  get  at  the  kernel." 

"Bravo,  little  Nelly  !"  cried  Hugh,  coming  behind  his  sis- 
ter, and  putting  his  two  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "  Why, 
this  is  a  speech  quite  a  la  Wychnor — the  fellow  himself 
might  have  said  it." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Wychnor?"  asked  Katharine. 

"Did  you  never  hear  Eleanor  speak  of  him?  Philip 
Wychnor  was  her  old  playfellow ;  and  avc  met  him  again 
this  autumn  at  IMrs.  Breynton's,  Avhen  Ave  Avere  all  staying 
there  together." 


26  THE    OGILVIES. 

"What  is  he  like?"  again  inquired  Katliarine. 

"  I  tliiuk  I  can  best  answer  tliat,"  said  Eleanor,  turning 
round,  with  the  faintest  rose-tiut  on  her  usually  colorless 
cheek;  "Philip  Wychnor  is  a  nephew  of  Mrs.  Breynton's. 
He  has  great  talents — but  that  is  his  least  gift.  He  has  the 
faculty  of  making  every  one  honor  and  respect  him,  though 
he  is  as  yet  little  more  than  a  boy." 

"A  hoy  !  why,  Nell,  he  is  more  than  twenty,"  interrupted 
Hugh,  with  one  of  his  merriest  laughs.  "  Only  fancy,  Kath- 
arine, calling  a  young  man — a  graduate  of  Oxford^aboy !" 

Eleanor  only  smiled,  with  a  composure  which  had  its 
effect  upon  the  young  man,  who  possessed  Katharine's 
grand  qualification  to  make  a  perfect  character;  he  "loved 
his  sister."  Moreover,  he  felt  the  influence  of  her  more 
finely-constituted  mind  and  character  to  a  degree  of  which 
he  was  himself  hardly  conscious. 

"  Well,  he  Avas  a  good  fellow,  this  Wychnor — though 
?ather  too  sentimental  and  poetical  for  me.  But,  there  is 
Aunt  Ogilvie  calling  for  Katharine.  What  a  pity  that  our 
pleasant  talk  in  the  corner  must  end  !" 

Katharine  bounded  aAvay  in  answer  to  her  mother's  sum- 
mons. One  circumstance  gave  her  considerable  surprise, 
and  yet  satisfaction — that  at  breakfast,  and  after,  amidst 
all  the  conversation  about  Mrs.  Lancaster's  soiree,  no  one 
had  ever  mentioned  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon.  No  one  even 
seemed  to  think  of  him.  Now,  in  her  own  reminiscences 
of  the  evening,  both  dreaming  and  awake,  this  one  image 
stood  pre-eminent  amidst  all  the  rest.  It  was  very  odd, 
sui'ely.  But  she  felt  the  omission  a  relief;  for  Avho  but 
herself  could  comprehend  her  dreams  ? 

"I  want  you  to  Avrite  a  note  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  my  love," 
observed  her  mother.  "  Your  papa  wishes  the  Lancasters 
to  visit  us  while  Mr.  Lynedon  stays  with  them — he  has 
taken  such  a  fancy  to  the  young  man.  Did  you  see  him, 
Katharine  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katharine — and  could  not  find  another  word 
for  her  life. 

Her  mother  did  not  require  one,  since  she  was  busy  fidg. 


THE    OGILVIES.  27 

eting  about  in  the  Avriting-clesk  for  various  instruments  of 
epistolary  labor,  the  absence  of  which  sliowed  how  little 
versed  the  lady  was  in  the  art  of  correspondence. 

"Shall  I  fetch  my  own  desk,  mamma?" 

"Ay,  do,  love;  you  have  every  thing  you  want  there, 
and  I  am  not  used  to  writing — especially  to  sucli  clever 
people  as  Mrs.  Laycaster." 

This  latter  portion  of  her  mother's  sentence  rested  pain- 
fully on  Katharine's  mind  during  her  journey  to  her  own 
room  and  back.  It  was  indeed  a  formidable  thins:  to  write 
to  Mrs.  Lancaster — and  about  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  !  Poor 
Katharine  felt  positively  alarmed,  especially  when  she  re- 
membered that  all  the  care  of  her  governess  and  masters 
had  never  succeeded  in  making  her  a  caligraphist,  and 
that  she  now  wrote  the  sorriest  hand  imaginable.  Timidly 
did  she  hint  this  to  her  mother. 

"Why,  my  dear  child,  ^^ou  never  cared  for  your  hand- 
wa'iting  before  ;  what  makes  you  so  particular  now  ?  I 
suppose  you  are  afraid  of  Mrs.  Lancaster.  But  nevermind, 
for  I  once  heard  her  say  that  clever  people  always  write 
badly — and  certainly  her  own  handwriting  is  a  specimen 
of  tliis." 

Katharine  laughed ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word  more  of 
excuse,  lest  her  mother  should  discover  that  there  was  an- 
other person's  opinion  which  she  had  thought  of  even  be- 
fore Mrs.  Lancaster's. 

"He  will  certainly  see  the  letter — she  will  be  sure  to 
shoAv  it  to  him,"  said  Katharine  to  herself,  when  she  Avas 
left  alone  to  fulfill  her  task.  And  the  idea  that  Mr.  Lyne- 
don's  eyes  would  rest  upon  her  letter — or,  at  the  least,  that 
he  would  hear  it  read — made  the  writing  and  composition 
seem  matters  of  momentous  importance.  She  changed  the 
sentences,  and  rearranged  them  ;  one  said  too  much,  an- 
other too  little.  First,  the  invitation  appeared  too  Avarm ; 
and  then  it  Avas  AA^orded  in  a  style  so  coldly  polite  that 
Katharine  felt  sure  a  man  of  his  dignity  would  never  ac- 
cept it.  She  wrote  more  copies  than  she  cared  to  count 
before  the  final  decision  was  made.    Then,  Avheu  in  the  last 


28  TUE    OGILVIES. 

carefully-intlited  epistle  she  came  to  his  name — Mr.  Paul 
Lynedon — it  was  written  slowly,  almost  tremulously.  She 
had  said  it  to  herself  many  times,  until  it  had  grown  almost 
a  familiar  sound,  but  she  had  never  Avritten  it  before.  It 
was  a  simple  arrangement  of  simple  letters  ;  and  yet,  when 
she  liad  completed  the  epistle,  the  one  name  seemed  to  her 
to  stand  out  iu  bold  relief  from  the  rest  of  the  page,  distinct 
and  clear — as  the  face  of  its  owner  among  all  other  human 
faces  in  that  motley  crowd. 

Let  us  travel  in  spirit,  whither  Katharine's  thouglits  often 
wandered  that  day,  and  accompany  the  letter  to  its  desti- 
nation. If  in  real  life  this  clairvoyance  existed,  how  many 
of  us  would  wish  to  employ  it?  And  with  what  result? 
Perhaps  to  see  lines — over  wliich  the  full  heart  had  poured 
itself,  or  stilled  its  beatings  in  a  vain  efibrt  to  write  care- 
lessly of  what  it  felt  so  much — glanced  over  with  an  idle, 
passing  notice,  and  thrown  aside  !  Or,  perchance,  to  mark 
with  almost  equal  pain  that  what  we  wrote  as  mere  "words, 
words,  words"  of  custom  or  of  courtesy,  became  to  the  re- 
ceiver a  mine  of  treasure,  to  be  pored  over  and  reconstrued 
again  and  again,  hopefully  or  despondingly,  with  feelings 
of  which  we  knew  not,  and,  knowing,  would  only  regard  in 
sorrowful  pity  that  they  should  be  thus  cast  at  our  feet  in 
vain. 

"Here  is  an  invitation,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  throwing 
down  Katharine's  precious  note  among  a  heap  of  others. 
"  It  concerns  you,  Lynedon  ;  will  you  read  it  ?" 

"Thank  you  —  presently."  He  finished  his  coffee,  and 
then  took  up  the  letter.  "  It  seems  a  cordial  invitation — 
shall  you  accept  it  ?" 

"If  you  are  also  inclined.  Summerwood  is  a  pretty 
place,  I  believe,  with  many  antiquities  in  the  neighbor- 
hood." 

"That  will  just  suit  3'ou,"  said  Lynedon,  smiling,  as  he 
remembered  the  archaeological  hobby  which  Mrs.  Lancaster 
had  lately  mounted,  and  which  she  w^as  now  riding  to  death. 

"  Yes,  but  you  yourself  might  find  some  interests  even 
among  such  quiet  folk  as  the  Ogilvies.    The  old  father,  Sir 


THE    OGILVIES.  29 

James,  is  iiv  Lis  dotage,  and  Mr.  Ogilvie  lias  considerable 
influence  in  the  county.  lie  might  be  of  use  in  this  Par- 
liamentary scheme  of  yours ;  especially  as  he  told  me,  in 
his  own  solemn  Avay,  how  much  lie  liked  you." 

"Liked  me?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  him  now.  A  precise, 
middle-aged  specimen  of  the  genus  'country  gentleman' — 
with  a  quiet,  mild -looking  lady  always  creeping  after 
him.  His  wife,  probably?"  He  looked  at  the  signature, 
"'Katharine  Ogilvie' — a  pretty  name,  very;  it  is  hers,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  No,  the  note  is  from  their  daughter.  You  saw  her  too 
the  other  night  —  a  little  brown -coraplexioned  girl,  who 
dropped  her  flowers,  and  you  gave  them  to  her." 

"I  really  do  not  remember  the  fact,"  said  Paul  Lynedon, 
shaking  back  his  beautiful  hair.  ""  Was  she  pretty  ?  Really, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Lancaster,  you  fill  your  house  so  with  beauty 
that  one  is  perplexed  with  abundance.  But  for  this  visit 
— I  am  quite  at  your  service,  you  know,  invariably." 

"Then  it  is  agreed  upon.  Julian,  my  love,  put  it  down 
in  my  visiting-book,  that  we  may  not  forget."  Mr.  Lan- 
caster did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Lynedon 
went  on  with  their  conversation,  during  which  the  latter — 
who  had  a  habit  of  always  playing  with  something  v/hile 
he  was  talking — twisted  Katharine's  note  into-  every  con- 
ceivable shape,  finally  tearing  it  into  small  diamonds,  and 
then  again  into  triangles. 

Poor  Katharine  !  And  yet  in  the  wildness  and  self-for- 
getful iiess  of  her  dream  she  might  not  have  thought  it  an 
unworthy  destiny  for  her  letter.  Had  it  not  been  torn  in 
pieces  by  Paul  Lynedon's  very  own  fingers ! 

With  Mrs.  Lancaster's  acceptance  came  one  from  Mr. 
Lynedon  himself,  in  a  few  courteous  words,  which  won  the 
marked  approbation  of  the  formal  Mr.  Ogilvie. 

"A  proper,  gentleman-like  note.  Mr.  Lynedon  is,  as  I 
thought,  very  superior  to  the  young  men  of  the  present 
day."  His  young  daughter's  eyes  brightened  at  the 
words.     It  was  so  pleasant  to  hear  her  hero  praised  ! 

"And  read  what  Mrs.  Lancaster  says  of  him,"  observed 


30  THE    OGILVIES. 

Mrs.  Ogilvie,  as  she  handed  the  lady's  epistle  to  her  hus- 
band. 

Mr.  Ogilvie  looked,  shook  his  head,  and  passed  the  note 
on  to  his  daughter.  "  Read  it,  Katharine,  I  never  could 
make  out  Mrs.  Lancaster's  hand." 

Katharine  read  with  a  voice  wonderfully  steady,  consid- 
ering how  her  little  heart  fluttered  all  the  time.  "  'I  thank 
you  for  including  my  friend,  Mr.  Lynedon,  in  your  invita- 
tion ;  it  will  give  me  pleasure  to  introduce  to  your  circle 
one  whom  you  will,  I  trust,  esteem  as  I  do.  He  is  a  man 
whose  talents  will  one  day  raise  him  very  high  in  the  world. 
He  has  the  minor  advantages  of  a  good  social  position,  and, 
I  believe,  an  excellent  heart ;  but  these  are  little  compared 
to  his  highest  possession  —  a  commanding  and  powerfid 
mind,' " 

"  Is  Mrse  Lancaster  quite  right  there  ?"  said  Eleanor,  lift- 
ing up  her  soft  quiet  eyes  from  her  work.  "  She  seems  to 
think  of  Mr.  Lynedon's  intellect  alone,  and  to  regard  no 
other  qualities.     Now,  he  may  be  a  clever  man — " 

"He  may  be — he  is!"  cried  Katharine,  energetically. 
"  Pie  will  be  one  of  the  great  men  of  the  age."  Then  see- 
ing that,  as  usual,  her  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm  met  with 
but  a  freezing  reception,  she  grew  hot  and  cold,  and  heartily 
wished  she  could  run  away. 

"  Really,  Katharine,  that  is  a  very  positive  declaration 
to  be  made  by  a  child  like  you,"  said  her  father;  "and, 
besides,  what  opportunity  can  you  have  had  of  judg- 
ing of  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon's  intellect  ?  Did  he  speak  to 
you  ?" 

"Oh  no  !  but  I  heard  him  talk  to  others ;  that  was  much 
better  than  if  he  had  spoken  to  me.  I  liked  very  much  to 
listen  to  him ;  I  did  not  know  it  was  wrong." 

"  By  no  means,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  "  A  taste 
for  refined  conversation  is  always  becoming  in  a  lady ;  and 
when  you  grow  up,  and  are  aware  of  the  position  which 
you  hold  in  the  world,  I  hope  you  will  always  have  clever 
men  and  women  in  your  society.  But  still,  as  a  child,  you 
should  not  express  quite  so  decided  an  oj^iniou — at  least 


THE    OGILYIES.  31 

not  in  public.  Here,  with  only  your  papa,  myself,  and 
Eleanor,  it  signifies  little." 

Katharine  did  not  at  all  understand  why  a  right  opin- 
ion was  not  right  to  be  expressed  at  all  times  and  in  all 
places;  prudence,  reserve,  and  conventionalism  being  quite 
unknown  in  her  young  life's  exquisite  Utopia.  But  she 
said  nothing,  for  she  always  found  that  arguing  on  the 
subject  did  not  avail  in  the  slightest  degree.  Her  lather 
never  gave  reasons,  but  merely  repeated  his  opinions  in  a 
tone  gradually  more  and  more  authoritative.  The  girl's 
only  chance  of  finding  out  truth  lay  in  pondering  over 
every  thing  she  saw  and  heard  in  the  depths  of  her  own 
heart,  and  thus  struggling  toward  a  conclusion.  But  with 
the  wisest  of  us  this  internal  course  of  education  is  often 
at  first  groping  through  dark  Avays.  Our  minds,  not  only 
in  their  powers  of  acquiring  knowledge,  but  in  their  per- 
ceptive and  reflective  faculties,  need  a  guiding  hand  as 
well  as  our  bodies.  We  must  be  led  a  while  before  we 
have  strength  to  walk  alone. 

Katharine  Ogilvie  had  no  one  to  direct  her — not  one 
living  soul.  She  was  ever  looking  toward  the  light,  and 
in  vain.  Each  glimmering  taper  she  mistook  for  the  full- 
ness of  day.  Perhaps  it  was  this  intense  yearning  for 
something  whereon  to  rest — some  one  from  whom  to  learn 
wisdom,  excellence,  truth  —  who  would  take  her  restless, 
unformed  life  into  his  hands,  and  become  at  once  its  law, 
its  guide,  its  glory,  and  its  delight — perhaps  it  was  this 
which  made  her  cling  with  such  sudden  vehemence  to  that 
ideal  which  she  thought  she  saw  in  Paul  Lynedon.  It  was 
not  that,  according  to  the  rule  of  young  misses  of  her  age, 
she  "fell  in  love."  Katharine  would  have  started  witli  in- 
stinctive delicacy  had  the  expression  met  her  ear  or  the 
thought  entered  her  mind.  Love  had  as  yet  little  place 
in  her  world — except  as  something  that  was  to  come  one 
day,  as  a  vague  sentiment,  full  of  poetry,  and  carrying  with 
it  a  mysterious  charm.  Her  feeling  toward  Paul  Lynedon 
was  somewhat  akin  to  what  she  experienced  toward  her 
pet  heroes  in  romances  or  her  favorite  poets — an  apprecia' 

B2 


32  THE    OGILVIES, 

live  Avoi-ship,  drawn  forth  by  all  that  was  in  them  of  nohle 
and  beautiful — 

A  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  tlie  ;<phere  of  our  sorrow. 

Of  "falling  in  love"  witli  or  marrying  Paul  Lynedon  she 
no  more  thought  than  of  uniting  lierself  in  aftectionate 
earthly  ties  to  an  angel  who  guided  some  "  bright  partic- 
ular star." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this  child-like  u;i3onsciousness  of  the 
real  nature  of  the  life-phase  which  w^as  opening  upon  her, 
it  was  strange  how  much  her  vague  interest  in  her  hero 
grew  during  the  few  days  that  intervened  between  the  ac- 
ceptance of  the  invitation  and  its  fulfillment.  But  she 
kept  her  thoughts  closely  locked  up  in  her  own  heart, 
which,  as  we  have  said,  was  indeed  a  reserve  neither 
strange  nor  new  to  her. 

When,  a  few  days  after,  the  departure  of  the  Worsley 
tribe  left  Katharine  alone  with  her  two  cousins,  Hugh  and 
Eleanor,  she  felt  the  restraint  a  little  removed.  But  still, 
though  she  loved  them  both  sincerely,  neither  they  nor 
any  human  being  had  ever  passed  the  circle  of  the  young 
girl's  inner  Avorld.  Hugh  could  not — it  was  beyond  his 
power ;  and  Eleanor,  detained  for  years  by  the  sick  couch 
of  her  lost  mother,  liad  scarcely  visited  Summerwood. 
Thus  not  even  she  had  ever  won  from  Katharine's  ex- 
treme shyness  that  friendship  and  confidence  which  mere 
ties  of  kindred  can  never  command. 

Therefore  no  hand  had  yet  lifted  more  than  the  outer 
fold  of  this  young  heart,  trembling,  bursting,  and  thrilling 
with  its  full,  rich  life,  and  ready  at  the  first  sun-gleam  to 
open  and  pour  forth  its  whole  awakened  being  in  a  per- 
fume— at  once  the  purest  and  most  passionate  form  of  that 
essence  which  we  call  Love. 

On  a  girl  like  this,  calmer  hearts  and  wiser  heads  may 
look  with  mingled  pity  and  blame.  And  yet  not  so — for 
God  never  made  a  more  innocent  creature  than  Katharine 
Ogilvie. 


THE    OGILYIES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care. 

Journeying  in  long  serenity  away, 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life,  like  thee,  midst  bowers  and  brooks, 

And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks 

And  murmur  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh. — Ehyaxt. 

Cliildren  ought  to  consider  themselves  in  the  house  of  their  father  as  in 
a  temple  where  nature  has  placed  them,  and  of  which  she  has  made  them 
the  priests  and  the  ministers,  that  tliey  might  continually'  employ  them- 
selves in  the  worship  of  those  deities  who  gave  them  being. — Hieroci.es. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  expected  three  clays'  visit  necessitated 
considerable  preparation  within  the  quiet  precincts  of  Sum- 
merwood,  and  Katharine  "vvas  deputed  to  stay  as  much  as 
possible  by  her  grandfather's  side,  in  order  to  amuse  him, 
and  keep  from  him  the  knowledge  of  any  domestic  revolu- 
tions. This  was  rather  pleasant  to  the  young  girl  than 
otherwise ;  for  she  was  a  great  favorite  with  Sir  James, 
and  returned  his  affection  by  a  watchful  love  above  that 
of  most  pet  grandchildren.  Besides,  the  ofUce  gave  her 
more  opportunities  of  indulging  in  those  fits  of  dreaminess 
which  now  more  than  ever  became  her  delight. 

Every  morning  Hugh  looked  in  n])on  his  grandfather's 
study.  It  was  called  so  still,  though  now  this  scene  of 
youthful  labor  had  been  transformed  into  the  quiet,  luxu- 
rious asylum  of  feeble  old  age.  Hugh,  as  he  came  with 
his  ffuns  or  his  fishing-rods,  had  often  glanced  lialf-con- 
temptuously  at  the  various  oddities  which  decorated  the 
chamber  of  the  old  politician— ponderous  tomes,  in  cen- 
tury-old bindings — dusty  files  of  newspapers,  which  clirou- 
icled  the  speeches  of  Pitt,  Fox,  and  Burke,  possibly  with 
the  announcement  that  tlie  orator  was  "left  speaking." 
And  so  he  yet  continued  to  speak  in  the  mind  and  mem- 
ory of  Sir  James  Ogilvie,  wlio  by  relics  so  carefully  pre- 


34  THE    OGILVIES. 

served  was  thus  enabled  to  blend  the  past  and  the  present. 
Every  morning,  when  he  had  listlessly  heard  the  last  night's 
sj^eeches  in  the  Times — listening  perhaps  more  to  the  ech- 
oes of  his  pet  granddaughter's  young  voice  than  to  the  elo- 
quence of  Macaulay  or  of  Peel — he  would  make  Katharine 
turn  over  the  old  file  of  newspapers  and  read  the  daily 
chronicle  of  fifty  years  ago.  Thus  events  which  had  grown 
dim  even  in  historical  recollection  acquired  the  freshness 
of  yesterday ;  and  great  men,  sharing  in  the  resuscitation, 
spoke,  not  from  their  tombs,  but  from  their  old  haunts  in 
palace  and  in  senate.  To  the  old  man — the  last  relic  of  a 
departed  age — this  past  was  a  reality ;  and  the  stirring, 
teeming  present  a  mere  shadow — less  than  a  dream. 

Katharine  never  laughed  at  these  vagaries.  They  were 
to  her  strangely  sacred,  and  her  fanciful  mind  cast  a  poetry 
over  all. 

"  Still  busy  with  those  yellow  old  pamphlets,"  said  Hugh, 
putting  in  his  head.  A  very  cheerful  face  it  was,  glowing 
with  health  and  good-temper,  a  fur  cap  sitting  jauntily  on 
the  thick  brown  curls.  "  Katharine  !  will  you  ncA^er  have 
done  these  readings  ? — at  Warren  Hastings  still,  I  see." 

Katharine  knitted  her  brows  and  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips  as  a  sign  to  stop  her  cousin's  thoughtless  speech.  She 
looked  much  prettier  in  her  high,  close  morning-dress  than 
in  the  ball  costume  she  wore  when  first  described;  it  hid 
her  thinness,  and  left  to  her  girlish  figure  its  natural  slen- 
der and  airy  grace.  She  sat  on  a  footstool,  leaning  against 
her  gi-andfather's  arm-chaii',  with  pamphlets  and  papers  all 
scattered  around.  Sir  James,  a  little,  spare,  withered  old 
man,  whose  sole  remnant  of  life  seemed  to  exist  in  his 
bright  restless  eyes,  leaned  back  in  abstraction  so  perfect 
that  he  only  noticed  Hugh's  entrance  by  the  cessation  of 
the  reading. 

"Go  on,  Katharine,"  he  said,  in  the  querulous  tone  of  ex- 
treme old  age ;  "  why  did  you  stop  in  the  middle  of  that 
fine  sentence  of  Mr.  Burke's  ?" 

"Hugh  lias  just  come  in  to  say  good  morning,  dear 
grandfather." 


THE    OGILYIES.  35 

"  Hugh — what,  Sir  Hugh  Abercoinhie  !  I  am  really  hon- 
ored." 

Hugh  could  not  help  laughing;  at  which  Sir  James  turned 
sharply  round,  and,  as  he  recognized  his  grandson,  his  keen, 
glittering  eyes  wore  an  expression  of  annoyance. 

"  You  are  exceedingly  rude,  sir !  Go  away,  and  do  not 
interrupt  us  again." 

"  Very  well,  grandfather.  I  only  came  to  say  how  d'ye 
do  to  you,  and  to  have  a  word  with  my  little  cousin  liere. 
Katharine,"  he  continued,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I  met  your 
mamma  on  the  stairs,  and  she  desired  me  to  say  that  you 
must  try  to  make  Sir  James  understand  about  these  vis- 
itors, the  Lancasters — you  know  they  come  to-morrow, 
more's  the  pity."  And  Hugh's  face  grew  clouded,  while 
Katharine's  brightened  considerably. 

"Mamma  told  him  yesterday — -I  heard  her." 

"  Ay,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  make  it  out  clearly,  and  was 
rather  cross.  Now  you  can  persuade  grandiatlier  to  any 
thing,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  continued  Hugh,  looking 
fondly  in  her  face  as  she  stood  in  the  window,  whither  he 
had  drawn  her  aside. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  try ;  and  now  run  away,  and  good  suc- 
cess to  your  skating,  which  I  see  is  to  be  your  •amusement 
to-day." 

"But, Katharine, I  shall  be  so  dull  alone.  "Will  nobody 
come  and  see  me  skate  this  fine  morning  ?" 

"  How  vain  you  are,  cousin  Hugh,"  laughed  Katharine. 
"But  it  will  soon  be  grandpapa's  lunch-time,  and  then  I 
shall  be  at  liberty,  and  will  come  to  the  pond.  So  good-by 
for  a  little." 

"  Good-by,  and  mind  yoii  come,  Katharine."  And,  as 
Hugh  departed,  liis  cousin  heard  him  whistling  all  the  way 
down  the  staircase, "  My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet" — his 
favorite  tune. 

"  How  tiresome  that  boy  is,"  said  the  old  man.  Katha- 
rine did  not  answer,  but  again  took  her  place  and  began  to 
read.  Sir  James  tried  to  compose  himself  to  listen,  but  the 
thread  was  broken,  and  would  not  reunite.     Besides,  the 


36  THE    OGILVIKS. 

interruption  had  made  her  own  thoughts  wander,  and  ?hQ 
read  on  mechauicall3^,-so  that  her  voice  took  a  monotonous 
tone.  Her  grandfather  nodded  over  the  very  exordium  of 
Wan-en  Hastings's  defense,  and  at  last  pronounced  that  it 
seemed  not  quite  so  interesting  as  it  was  at  first ;  so  he 
thouglit  they  had  read  enough  for  to-day.  Katharine  fell 
I'eally  glad  ;  she  put  by  all  the  books  and  papers  with  alac- 
nty,  and  took  her  jjlace  again  at  her  grandfather's  feet. 

Now  was  the  time  for  introducing  the  subject  committed 
to  Iier  care.  Tliere  could  hardly  be  a  more  lavorable  mo- 
ment, for  she  had  got  fast  hold  of  her  grandfather's  tliin, 
yellow,  withered  fingers,  and  was  playing  Avith  the  niag- 
iiificent  rings-  which  still  daily  adorned  them.  Nothing 
contributed  so  much  to  the  old  baronet's  good-humor  as  to 
Lave  his  rings  admired,  and  lie  began  to  tell  Katharine,  for 
tlie  luindredtli  time,  how  one  liail  been  a  bequest  of  Lord 
Chatham's,  and  liow  another,  a  magnificent  diamond,  had 
l)een  placed  on  his  finger  by  King  George  the  Third,  with 
liis  own  royal  and  friendly  hand.  The  young  girl  listened 
patiently,  and  with  the  interest  that  aftection  always  taught 
her  to  assume.  Then  taking  advantage  of  a  pause,  she  ob- 
served, 

"I  tliink,  grandpapa,  you,  who  are  so  fond  of  antique 
rings,  will  like  to  see  one  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  wears.  I 
will  ask  her  to  show  it  you  when  she  comes  to-morrow." 

"Who  comes  to-morrow,  child?  Who  is  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter?" 

"Avery  clever,  agreeable  woman.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber that  mamma  invited  her  to  spend  a  few  days  here — 
she,  and  her  husband,  and  a  friend  of  theirs,  Mr.Lyncdon  ?" 

"  Lynedon — Lynedon.  Ah  !  I  remember  him  well.  Mr. 
— no,  he  was  afterward  made  Viscount  Lynedon,  of  Lyne- 
don. A  clever  speaker — a  perfect  gentleman.  He  and  I 
were  both  presented  at  the  king's  first  levee.  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  see  Lord  Lynedon." 

"I  do  not  think  this  is  the  gentleman  you  mean,  grand- 
papa," said  Katharine,  meekly,  while  the  faintest  shadow 
of  a  smile  hovered  over  her  lips.    "  He  is  not  Viscount,  only 


THE    OGILVIES.  37 

Mr.  Lynedon — Paul  Lynedon ;  but  he  may  be  related  to 
your  old  friend." 

"Ah  ! — yes,  yes — ^just  so,"  repeated  Sir  James,  his  look 
of  disappointment  brightening.  "  Of  course  he  is  !  Let 
me  see ;  the  Lynedons  were  a  large  family.  There  Avas  a 
second  brother,  and  his  name  was  a  Scripture  one — Philip, 
or  Stephen,  or  Paul.  Yes,  yes;  it  must  be  Paul,  and  this 
is  he.     Right,  Katharine." 

Katharine  hardly  knew  what  to  answer. 

"I  shall  be  delighted — honored — to  receive  Mr.  Paul 
Lynedon  at  Summerwood,"  continued  the  old  baronet.  "I 
well  remember  Lord  Lynedon — a  fine,  tall,  noble-looking 
man.  I  wonder  if  his  brother  is  like  him.  Describe  Mi'. 
Paul  Lynedon,  Katharine." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  still  a  little  mistaken,  dear  grand- 
papa," said  the  girl,  caressingly.  "This  Mr.  Lynedon  is 
quite  a  young  man,  while  your  friend  must  be — " 

"Eh!  eh!  Katharine;  what  are  you  saying?"  sharply 
asked  Sir  James.  "  I  am  not  so  very  old,  am  I  ?  Let  me 
see  ;  it  is  since  then  oidy  twenty — forty — fifty  years  ;  ah  ! 
fifty  years,  fifty  years,"  repeated  he,  counting  on  his  trem- 
bling fingers.  "Yes,  child,  you  are  right;  it  can  not  bo 
the  same ;  he  must  have  been  dead  long  ago.  I  was  a 
youth  then,  and  he  a  man  of  forty.  Yes,  yes,  all  are  gone  ; 
there  is  nobody  left  but  me."  And  the  old  man  fell  back 
in  his  chair. 

Katharine  leaned  her  rosy  cheek  against  liis  v»uthered 
and  wrinkled  one,  saying  gently,  "Dear  grandpapa,  don't 
talk  so.  What  does  it  matter  being  old  when  you  know 
we  all  love  you.  xVnd  though  this  gentleman  is  not  the 
friend  you  knew,  I  am  sure  you  will  like  him  very  much. 
Papa  does.  And  you  knoAv  he  may  be  one  of  your  Lyne- 
dons after  all,  and  able  to  talk  to  you  about  your  old 
friends." 

"  Ah  !  well,  little  Katharine,  you  may  be  right.  And  it 
is  worth  being  eighty  years  of  age  to  find  one's  self  grand- 
father to  a  little  coaxing,  loving,  smiling  thing  like  3'ou." 

The  old  man  laughed,  but  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes; 


38  THE    OGILVIES. 

and  Katharine  hastened  to  beguile  them  away  by  all  the 
playful  wiles  of  which  she  was  mistress.  By  the  time  the 
arrival  of  lunch  set  her  free,  all  Sir  James's  equanimity  was 
restored.  He  even  remembered  that  he  had  been  rather 
hasty  toward  Hugh,  and  sent  a  message  intended  to  be 
propitiatory,  challenging  his  grandson  to  an  hour's  back- 
gammon in  the  study  after  dinner.  Moreover,  he  made 
many  inquiries  concerning  the  way  in  Avhich  Katharine  in- 
tended to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day ;  and  learning  that  she 
was  going  to  watch  Hugh's  skating,  he  delayed  her  for  full 
five  minutes  with  a  circumstantial  account  of  various  re- 
markable frosts  that  had  happened  in  the  days  of  his  youth, 
and  of  what  his  nurse  had  told  him  of  the  fixir  that  was  held 
on  the  Thames  in  the  winter  of  1 713.  "  But  that,  my  dear, 
was  before  my  time,  you  know." 

"  And,  grandpapa,"  whispered  Katharine,  when  she  had 
listened  patiently  to  all,  "  you  will  think  of  the  visitors 
coming  to-morrow,  and  be  sure  to  like  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  ?" 

"Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  !  Oh,  I  remember  now,"  answered 
the  old  man,  making  an  effort  to  collect  his  Avandering 
ideas.  "Yes,  yes — the  Viscount's  son.  Of  course,  Katha- 
rine, I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  him.  You  must  not  forget 
to  tell  him  so." 

Katharine  made  no  attempt  to  explain  the  matter  fur- 
ther, satisfied  that  her  grandfather's  mind  yvas  properly  in- 
clined to  courtesy  and  kindly  feeling.  She  went  away  per- 
fectly content  with  the  duty  so  well  fulfilled,  not  reflecting 
that  in  their  conversation  she  had  entirely  forgotten  all 
that  was  to  have  been  said  about  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lancaster, 


THE    OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Ill  thee 

Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 

Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 

From  one  censer,  in  one  sluine 

Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
*  *  * 

They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  otiier,  mellow,  deep 

— Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 

Texntson. 

Though  Katharine  had  been  busy  all  the  morning,  aid- 
ing her  mother  in  the  various  cares  of  the  mistress  of  Sum- 
merwood  Park,  still,  wlien  the  time  approached  for  the  ar- 
rival of  the  guests,  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  rest.  Hugh 
had  taken  himself  oif  for  the  day  on  a  shooting  excursion; 
Eleanor  was  occupied  in  her  own  room;  and  when  all  was 
prepared  for  the  visitors,  Katharine  had  no  resource  but  to 
wander  about  the  house.  She  did  so,  roaming  from  room 
to  room  Avith  a  vague  restlessness  that  would  not  pass 
away.  Every  five  minutes  she  went  to  the  hall-window 
and  listened  for  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels ;  then  she 
pondered  and  speculated  about  the  Lancasters,  ransacking 
her  memory  for  all  that  she  had  ever  heard  about  them, 
and  wonderino:  if  Mrs.  Lancaster  would  seem  as  agreeable 
as  the  other  night.  Wondering,  too,  if  one  always  liked 
people  as  well  the  second  time  of  meeting  as  the  first. 
And  if  Mr.  Lynedon —  She  stood  a  long  time  before  that 
favorite  head  of  Keats,  thinking  less  of  it  than  of  Mr.  Lyne- 
don. 

The  quick-coming  twilight  of  winter  drew  nigh,  and  the 
guests  had  not  arrived.     Katharine's  pleasurable  anticipa- 


40  THE    OGILVIES. 

tions  faded  a  little,  and  she  felt  vexed  at  herself  for  liaving 
wasted  so  much  time  in  thinking  about  tliese  new  acquaint- 
ances. Conscience-smitten  for  the  little  notice  she  had 
taken  of  her  cousin  during  that  day,  she  proceeded  to  Ele- 
anor's room,  and  finding  it  empty,  followed  her  into  the 
garden. 

Eleanor  sat  quietly  in  the  conservatory,  her  favorite  place 
of  study,  A  book  lay  on  her  lap,  but  she  was  hardly  read- 
ing ;  her  eyes  wandered  as  her  thoughts  were  doing.  Ele- 
anor, like  her  cousin,  was  still  at  that  2:»eriod  of  life  when 
dreaming  is  so  pleasant. 

There  can  hardly  be  a  better  opportunity  than  the  pres- 
ent to  sketch  the  personal  likeness  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  It 
shall  not  be  done  in  rose-colors,  adorned  Avith  similes  taken 
from  flowers,  shells,  sky,  earth,  and  air,  for  true  beauty  is 
indejjendent  of  all  these.  Eleanor  had  no  angel's  face,  only 
a  woman's;  sweet,  fair,  and  mild  as  a  woman's  should  be. 
Her  beautiful  soul  shone  through  it,  and  therefore  it  became 
itself  beautiful.  Not  that  it  was  without  a  certain  grace 
of  form,  but  still  that  quality  was  subservient  to  the  higher 
one,  of  expression,  Avithout  which,  features  as  perfect  as  the 
sculptor's  chisel  can  create  are  more  soulless  than  the  mar- 
ble itself  Eleanor's  countenance  might  have  been  passed 
over  as  merely  "  rather  pretty,"  except  for  the  inexpressi- 
ble charm  cast  over  it  by  each  varying  emotion  of  her 
mind.  After  all,  tlie  truest  beauty  is  not  that  Avhich  sud- 
denly dazzles  and  fascinates,  but  that  which  steals  upon  us 
insensibly.  Let  us  each  call  up  to  memory  the  faces  that 
liave  been  most  pleasant  to  us — those  that  we  have  loved 
best  to  look  upon,  that  now  rise  most  vividly  before  us  in 
solitude,  and  oftenest  haunt  our  slumbers — and  Ave  shall 
usually  find  them  not  the  most  perfect  in  form,  but  the 
ssveetest  in  expression.  Yet  this  generalizing  is  idle.  Ea^- 
evy  human  mind  has  its  OAvn  ideal  of  beauty,  and  almost 
nhvays  this  ideal  is  based  upon  some  individual  realit)'. 
Therefore  Ave  Avill  leave  Eleanor  Ogilvie's  face  in  that  dim 
mystery  out  of  Avhich  each  can  create  the  image  he  loves 
best. 


THE    OGILYIES.  41 

Katharine,  even,  was  struck  by  it.  The  contrast  Avas 
erreat  between  her  own  restless  movements  and  her  cousin's 
perfect  repose.  "  Why,  Eleanor,  how  quiet  you  are  here, 
when  all  the  house  is  full  of  hurry  and  expectation!  You 
seem  almost  to  have  forgotten  that  the  Lancasters  are 
coming." 

"  Oh  no,  for  you  see  I  am  already  dressed  for  dinner." 

"  So  you  are ;  and  how  well  you  look,  with  your  high 
black  dress  and  your  smooth  fair  hair.  You  are  quite  a 
picture  !"  And,  removing  her  cousin's  fur  wrappings,  she 
regarded  her  with  a  sincere  admiration,  almost  childish  in 
its  demonstration.  "  I  wonder  what  he — that  is,  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster— will  think  of  you  ?" 

"You  forget,  Katharine,  tliat  I  am  not  a  stranger;  she 
has  seen  me  before.  Hugh  and  I  spent  one  evening  with 
her  when  we  were  in  town  last  year." 

"And  how  did  you  like  her?  and  is  not  her  house  the 
most  charming  Y)lace  in  the  world  ?"  cried  Katharine. 

"That  is  rather  going  into  extremes.  But  she  seemed 
pleasing  and  gracious  to  every  body,  and  I  met  many 
agreeable  people  at  her  house  that  night." 

"Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  ?"  inquired  Katliarine,  rather  hesi- 
tatingly ;  "  vras  he  there  ?" 

Eleanor  could  hardly  help  smiling.  "  Is  Mr.  Paul  Lyne- 
don, then,  tlie  only  agreeable  person  in  the  world?  Well, 
I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  I  believe  that  he  was  of  the  party." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  us  so  tlie  other  day?" 

"I  really  quite  forgot  it  at  the  time." 

Amazing,  thought  Katharine,  that  she  should  not  be  quite 
certain  whether  she  liad  met  Mr.  Lynedon,  or,  having  met 
him,  could  ever  forget  the  fact.  In  her  own  mind,  Katha- 
rine set  down  her  cousin  as  a  girl  of  very  little  discrimina- 
tion. But  she  did  not  pursue  the  conversation,  for  Eleanor, 
closing  her  book,  prepared  to  return  to  the  house. 

"  Let  us  take  one  turn  before  we  go  in,  Katharine.  There 
will  be  plenty  of  time,  for  now  the  Lancasters  will  probably 
not  be  here  until  dinner.  Tell  mc  what  you  have  been 
doing  all  day  ?" 


42  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  Following  mamma,  and  delivering  messages  to  cook 
and  housemaids,  until  my  poor  brain  is  quite  bewildered. 
Indeed,  I  never  could  take  an  interest  in  such  things ;  I 
wish  luamina  would  leave  me  alone,  and  not  try  to  make  a 
sensible  woman  of  me.  I  had  much  rather  be  with  grand- 
papa, and  hear  him  talk  about  public  matters,  and  read  the 
speeches  in  tlie  newspaper.  Eleanor,  I  Avas  never  born  fur 
this  dull,  quiet  life ;  I  want  to  do  something — to  be  some- 
thing." 

"  To  be  what,  dear  Katharine  ?"  said  Eleanor,  to  whom 
this  confidence  was  new;  but  it  burst  from  the  girl's  lips 
under  shelter  of  the  twilight,  and  in  consequence  of  the 
restlessness  of  her  mind. 

"  I  hardly  know  what,  exactly  ;  but  I  think  I  should  like 
to  be  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's  position — clever,  with  plenty  of 
society,  able  to  write,  speak,  and  think,  just  as  I  liked ;  quite 
independent  of  every  body." 

"I  do  not  think  there  is,  or  was,  any  individual  in  this 
world — certainly  no  woman — of  whom  one  could  say  that 
she  was  'quite  independent  of  every  body.'  Nay,  even 
were  it  possible,  I  doubt  if  such  a  life  would  be  a  happy 
one  ;  and,  what  is  still  more,  if  it  would  be  useful  and  full 
of  good  to  othei's,  wdiich  is  the  highest  happiness  of  all." 

"Eleanor,"  said  Katharine,  looking  fixedly  in  her  face, 
"  you  reason  where  I  only  feel." 

"Do  you  think  I  never  feel,  dear?"  answered  Eleanor, 
while  her  own  peculiar  moonlight  smile  cast  a  grave  sweet- 
ness over  her  countenance.  "  But  we  will  talk  of  these 
things  another  time.  I  am  so  glad  we  have  begun  to  talk 
of  them.  Those  are  rarely  very  close  friends  who  keep 
shut-up  corners  in  their  hearts.  You  must  let  me  peep  into 
a  few  of  yours,  my  little  cousin." 

"Suppose  you  find  nothing  but  cobwebs  and  dust  there?" 
said  Katharine,  laughing. 

"I  will  sweep  tliem  all  away  with  a  little  broom  I  keep 
by  me  for  the  purpose,"  returned  Eleanor,  in  the  same 
strain. 

"  What  is  it  ?" 


THE    OGILYIES  43 

"It  is  made  of  a  flowering  plant,  that  grows  in  every 
quiet  dell  throughout  the  world,  and  which  you  may  often 
tind  when  you  least  look  for  it.  It  is  gathered  in  the  fresh 
sunshine  of  Hope,  and  tied  together  with  a  ground-creeper 
called  Patience  ;  which,  though  as  slender  as  a  thread,  binds 
all  too-ether  with  the  strength  of  an  iron  chain.  I  would 
engage  to  brighten  up  the  most  unsightly  heart-chambers 
with  this  broom  of  mine.     Now,  what  is  it  made  of?" 

"  I  guess,  dear  Nelly,  I  guess,"  cried  Katharine,  clapping 
her  hands  with  that  sudden  child-like  ebullition  of  pleasure 
which  Avas  natural  to  her  ;  and,  both  laughing  merrily,  with 
a  brightness  in  their  eyes,  and  a  glow  on  their  cheeks,  the 
two  girls  entered  the  open  hall-door.  Bonnets  in  hand, 
and  shawls  carelessly  dangling,  they  passed  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

There,  talking  to  Mr.  Ogilvie,  and  having  evidently  just 
arrived,  stood  the  Lancasters  and  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  ! 


CHAPTEPv  VI. 

A  woman's  love  is  essentially  lonely,  and  spiritual  in  its  nature.  It  is 
the  heathenism  of  the  heart :  she  has  herself  created  the  glory  and  beauty 
with  which  the  idol  of  her  altar  stands  invested. — L.  E.  L. 

There  Avas  no  retreat  for  Katharine — no  rescue  from  the 
suddenness  of  this  first  interview,  Avhich,  when  in  perspect- 
ive, she  had  viewed  in  every  phase  of  probability,  fancying 
all  she  should  do  and  say,  and  all  thei/  might  do  and  say, 
in  a  mental  rehearsal,  which  she  supposed  included  every 
possible  chance.  But  the  momentous  event  had  presented 
itself  in  a  light  quite  unforeseen,  and  Katharine's  only  re- 
source was  to  shrink  behind  her  cousin  as  much  as  j^ossible. 
Eleanor  advanced  in  her  usual  comj)Osed  manner  to  Mrs. 
Lancaster. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  said 
the  lady,  with  her  customary  demonstration  of  cordiality 
— at  least  the  amount  of  it  which  was  consistent  with 


44  THE    OGILVIES. 

gracefulness  of  deportment.  "Julian,  here  is  your  young 
favorite.     Mr.  Lynedon,  allow  me  to  present  you  to — " 

"Miss  Katharine  Ogilvic,  I  believe,"  said  Paul  Lynedon, 
bowing  over  Eleanor's  hand. 

"Ko,  no,  I  really  beg  pardon,"  cried  INIrs.  Lancaster,  as 
Katharine's  shrinking,  blushing  countenance  met  her  eye. 
"  Tliis  is  the  real  fair  one,  the  right  Katharine.  I  must  apol- 
ogize for  my  short  sight.  My  dearest  Miss  Ogilvie,"  taking 
Katharine's  hand, "  allow  me  to  thank  you  for  your  charm- 
ing note,  and  to  present  to  you  my  friend  Mr.  Lynedon." 

Paul  Lynedon  was  a  perfect  gentleman.  No  passing 
blunder  ever  altered  his  composure  or  courtesy.  His  bend 
was  as  graceful  over  Katharine's  timidly-offered  hand  as  it 
had  been  over  her  cousin's.  His  compliments,  addressed 
to  the  sliy,  awkward  gii-1,  were  exactly  as  courteous  as 
those  of  which  Eleanor  had  been  the  i-ecipient.  Yet  in 
this  he  was  not  insincere.  The  polish  of  his  manners  orig- 
inated in  the  only  quality  wliich  makes  a  true  gentleman, 
and  which  no  formal,  Chesterfield-like  education  can  bestow 
— a  natural  refinement,  and  an  instinctive  Avish  to  give 
jileasure  to  others.  This  true  urbanity  never  fails  in  its 
results ;  nor  was  it  unsuccessful  now.  In  a  few  moments 
Katharine  became  sufficiently  reassured  to  lift  her  eyes 
from  the  carpet  to  Paul  Lynedon's  face.  It  was  a  little 
different  from  the  one  which  had  haunted  her  memory 
during  this  long  ten  days,  for  imagination  is  rarely  quite 
faithful  at  first.  But  still  it  wore  the  same  inexpressible 
charm.  She  dared  look  at  it  now,  for  the  eyes  were  turned 
away — following  Eleanor. 

Thither  Mrs.  Lancaster's  also  followed,  "I  am  really 
ashamed  to  have  mistaken  you  for  the  moment,  my  dear 
young  fiiend,"  said  that  lady,  the  universality  of  whose 
friendship  Avas  its  chief  recommendation. 

"  It  is  some  time  since  you  saw  me,"  answered  Eleanor's 
quiet  voice,  "  and  you  must  see  so  many  people." 

"True — true,  my  dear.  You  have  been  quite  well  since 
I  met  you  last,  and  that  charming  young  man,  your  brother 
—Peter?" 


THE    OGILYIES.  45 

"  Hugh,"  said  Eleanor,  smiling.  "  He  is  quite  well,  I  be- 
lieve ;  he  made  one  of  your  guests  the  other  day." 

"  Of  course — oh  yes  !"  And  Mrs.  Lancaster's  lips  formed 
themselves  into  a  lixed  smile,  while  her  eyes  wandered  ab- 
stractedly about  the  room.  !She  had  in  perfection  the  fac- 
ulty which  is  so  useful  in  general  society,  that  of  being 
able  to  train  the  features  into  the  appearance  of  polite  at- 
tention, attended  by  just  so  much  of  the  mind  as  will  suffice 
for  suitable  answers. 

Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  was  not  quite  so  much  aufait  at  this; 
he  had  not  lived  so  long  in  the  world  by  some  dozen  years 
as  his  excellent  friend  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Therefore,  in  the 
conversation  which  he  tried  hard  to  commence  with  Kath- 
arine, he  did  not  succeed  in  advancing  one  step  beyond  the 
weather,  and  the  distance  from  London  to  Summer  wood. 
Perhaps  Katharine's  own  shyness  had  something  to  do 
with  thie  ;  for,  though  it  had  been  her  delight  to  listen 
Avhcn  Paul  Lynedon  talked  to  others,  the  tones  of  his  mu- 
sical voice,  addressed  to  herself,  now  oppressed  her  with  a 
painful  timidity.  It  was  positively  a  relief  when  Eleanor 
proposed  a'l  adjournment. 

When  the  two  cousins  re-entered  the  drawing-room, 
there  was  stHl  the  same  striking  contrast  between  them — 
Eleanor  so  calm  and  self-possessed;  Katharine  trembling 
with  nervous  agitation. 

The  little  parly  v/ere  grouped,  as  was  natural  they 
should  be — Mrs,  Lancaster  conversing  with  Mr.  Ogilvie, 
while  a  feeling  of  hostess -like  benignity  prompted  Mrs. 
Oo-ilvie  to  extract  from  the  taciturn  Mr.  Lancaster  small 
fragments  of  conversation  relative  to  the  weather,  their 
journey,  the  country  in  general,  and  Summerwood  in  par- 
ticular. Paul  Lynedon  sa.t  aloof,  carelessly  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  a  book,  ocoi\sioi:ally  joining  in  with  a  passing 
remark. 

On  the  entrance  of  the  two  girls  he  rose  and  displayed 
the  customary  courtesies,  though  in  a  manner  enviably 
easy  and  quiet.  There  is  nothing  m.Qxe  annoying  and  un- 
comfortable to  a  lady  than  to  entv^r  a  Y<^r>\n  nud  see  every 


46  THE    OGILVIES. 

gentleman  jump  up  avmecl  with  a  chair,  ready  to  perform 
acts  of  officious  cliivahy,  Avhich  place  the  recipient  in  a 
position  infinitely  more  unpleasant  than  if  she  were  entire- 
ly neglected. 

Paul  Lynedon  began  with  a  commonplace — and,  reader, 
almost  all  things  in  life,  pleasant  friendships,  deep,  eai-uest, 
life-loncv  loves,  begin  with  the  same.  He  made  the  remark 
that  the  view  from  the  hall-windows  was — that  is,  would 
be  in  daylight,  and  in  summer  time — a  very  beautiful  one ; 
and  then  he  could  not  hel})  smiling  as  he  thought  what  a 
stupid  and  involved  observation  he  had  made. 

That  very  circumstance  broke  the  ice. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  wonderful  perception  of  the  beau- 
tiful, Mr.  Lynedon,"  said  Eleanor.  "  You  see  it '  with  your 
mind's  eye,'  which  piei'ces  through  the  darkness  of  a  win- 
ter night,  closed  shutters,  curtains  and  all."  And  the  good- 
tempered  smile  which  accompanied  her  words,  fairly  re- 
moving their  sting,  caused  Paul  Lynedon  to  laugh  merrily. 

"  You  have  saved  me.  Miss  Eleanor — given  me  something 
to  talk  about,  and  preserved  me  from  committing  myself 
any  more,  by  unfolding  to  me  a  few  points  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  lady  with  whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  convers- 
ing." 

"  What,  can  you  find  out  my  character  from  that  one 
speech  ?"  said  Eleanor,  rather  amused. 

"A  little  of  it." 

"  Tell  me  how." 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  have  Shakspeare  on  your 
tongue,  and  consequently  in  your  heart.  One  rarely  quotes 
where  one  does  not  love  the  author;  therefore  you  love 
Shakspeare,  and,  as  a  necessary  result,  all  true  poetry. 
Then  ray  remark — commonplace,  forced,  and  to  a  certain 
degree  insincere,  as  I  acknowledge  it  to  be — made  you 
smile ;  therefore  you  have  a  quick  perception  of  what  is 
inclined  to  falseness  and  affectation,  while  your  condemna- 
tion of  it  is  good-tempered  and  lenient.  Have  I  explained 
myself, even  though  I  prove  my  own  accuser?" 

"  Perfectly,  though  you  are  rather  too  harsh  upon  your- 


THE    OGILVIES.  47 

self,"  answered  Eleanor.     "  What  do  you  say  to  this  sketch 
of  me,  Katharine  ?" 

"  If  Mr.  Lynedon  means  that  you  are  always  true  in 
yourself,  and  always  kind  toward  others,  he  is  quite  right," 
said  Katharine,  aifectionately. 

Paul  Lynedon  directed  toward  the  warm-hearted  speaker 
a  look  of  more  curiosity  than  he  had  yet  thought  fit  to  be- 
stow upon  the  "  little  school-girl." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Ogilvie ;  that  is,  I  thank  you  for  prov- 
ing my  observations  correct.  A  harmless  vanity ;  yet  I 
fancy  they  needed  no  proof  but  the  mere  presence  of  your 
fair  cousin."  And,  as  he  bowed, his  eyes  rested  on  Eleanor's 
face  admiringly. 

ISTo  added  color  came  to  that  clear  cheek ;  the  smile  was 
tranquil  and  self-possessed,  and  Paul  Lynedon  looked  al- 
most vexed.  The  little  group  were  again  sinking  into 
small-talk,  when  a  servant  came  to  the  door  with  "  Sir 
Jaines  Ogilvie's  compliments,  and  he  was  impatient  for  the 
honor  of  receiving  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon." 

"  My  father  is  very  old,  and  lias  a  few  peculiarities ;  will 
it  be  agreeable  to  you  to  humor  him  -with  a  visit  now?" 
said  Mr.  Ogilvie. 

"  I  have  told  Mr.  Lynedon  all  about  Sir  James,"  observed 
Mrs.  Lancaster.  "  Pray  go — you  will  be  so  much  amused 
with  his  oddities,"  she  continued,  in  a  low  tone.  It  was 
meant  for  an  aside,  but  it  jarred  painfully  on  Katharine's 
ear,  which  was  ever  open  to  all  that  was  said  by,  or  ad- 
dressed to,  Paul  Lynedon. 

But  the  young  man's  only  answer  was  directed  to  Mr. 
Ogilvie. 

"Pray  do  not  talk  about  my  'humoring'  Sir  James;  it 
is  to  me  always  not  only  a  duty,  but  a  pleasure,  to  show 
respect  to  old  age." 

Katharine's  heart  beat  with  delight,  and  her  bright  smile 
had  in  it  something  of  pride  as  it  rested  on  the  speaker. 

"Katliarine,  show  Mr.  Lynedon  the  way  to  your  grand- 
father's study;  you  understand  him  better  than  any  one," 

said  Mrs.  Ogjilvie. 

C 


48  THE    OGILVIES. 

"May  I  be  permitted?"  And  Paul  Lyuedon  led  the 
young  girl  out  of  the  room  with  a  stately  courtesy,  that 
made  Katharine  almost  fancy  she  was  escorted  by  Sir 
Charles  Grandison. 

Through  the  long  hall,  where  the  light  of  modern  gas 
contrasted  strangely  enough  with  the  quaint  paneled  walls 
and  ancient  mouldings,  Katharine  and  her  cavalier  passed. 
She  could  hardly  believe  that  she  was  really  with  him,  that 
her  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  that  his  actual  voice  was  in  her 
ear,  talking  with  gentle  consideration  of  all  things  which 
he  thought  likely  to  set  the  timid  girl  at  her  ease. 

And  there  was  something  so  irresistibly  winning  in  Paul's 
manners,  that  before  they  reached  Sir  James's  door  Kath- 
arine found  herself  talking  frankly  of  her  grandfather,  his 
love  for  her,  his  waning  intellect,  and  explaining  the  misap- 
prehension which  had  led  to  his  anxiety  to  see  Mr.  Lyne- 
don. 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  it  would  not  be  as  well  to  let 
liini  continue  in  the  fancy,"  said  Katharine.  "  It  certainly 
gives  him  pleasure ;  but  then,  even  to  please  him,  I  do  not 
like  to  deceive  dear  grandpapa." 

"  It  would  not  be  deceit,  for  I  may  really  belong  to  the 
same  family,"  answered  Lynedon,  as  they  entered. 

The  old  baronet  raised  himself  on  his  gold-headed  cane 
and  courteously  greeted  his  visitor. 

"  It  is  to  me  an  honor  and  pleasure  to  welcome  my  old 
friend's  son.  Am  I  not  right  in  addressing  the  heir  of  Vis- 
count Lynedon?" 

"My  name  is  Lynedon,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  my 
father  w\as  well  acquainted  wnth  the  name  of  Sir  James 
Ogilvie,"  said  Paul,  evasively. 

Somehow  Katharine  did  not  like  the  subterfuge;  and 
yet  it  sprang  from  kindly  feeling.  She  said  this  to  herself 
until  she  became  quite  satisfied ;  the  more  so,  as  Lynedon 
replaced  the  old  man  in  his  chair  with  an  air  of  respectful 
courtesy,  and  then,  taking  a  seat  beside  him,  entered  into 
conversation.  A  most  entertaining  conversation  too — in 
which  he  showed  himself  perfectly  acquainted  witli  the 


THE    OGILVIES.  49 

history  of  the  long-past  era,  wherein  alone  Sir  James  seem^ 
ed  to  exist.  Moreover,  he  appeared  to  throw  his  whole  mind 
into  the  subject  with  a  cordial  earnestness  tliat  at  first  ex- 
cited Katharine's  surprise,  and  tlien  her  warm  admiration. 

"How  kind,  how  considerate,  how  clever  he  is,"  she 
thought  to  herself,  as  she  stood  apart,  watching  each  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  and  listening  to  the  music  of  his  voice. 
Through  every  avenue  by  which  brilliant  and  noble  quali- 
ties first  attract  and  then  enchain  a  heart  alive  to  all  that 
is  good  and  beautiful,  was  Paul  Lynedou  unconsciously 
taking  possession  of  Katharine's. 

While  unwittingly  stealing  this  young  girl's  liking, 
Lynedon  no  less  won  that  of  Sir  James.  Delightedly  the 
old  man  passed  from  conversation  about  public  matters  to 
inquiries  concerning  his  friend  the  Viscount  and  the  whole 
Lynedon  family,  all  of  which  Paul  answered  Avith  a  clear- 
ness and  readiness  that  charmed  his  companion.  Katha- 
rine, having  now  completely  got  over  the  fact  that  Paul 
had  assumed  an  untrue  character  to  please  her  grandfa- 
ther, felt  quite  glad  that,  though  there  was  a  slight  mistake 
about  his  being  the  Viscount's  son,  Lynedon  was  so  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  history  of  his  family,  and  could 
thus  delight  Sir  James  so  much. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  when  he  was  in  the  nlidst  of  an  ac- 
count of  the  marriage  of  Lord  Lynedon's  eldest  daughter. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  must  now"  relinquish  the  honor  of  your 
society,  ray  dear  young  friend — for  may  I  not  bestow  tliat 
name  on  your  father's  son  ?"  said  the  Baronet,  taking  Lyne- 
don's hand  with  a  curious  mixture  of  formality  and  attec- 
tion. 

"I  shall  always  be  proud  of  the  title,"  answered  Paul, 
earnestly. 

"And  besides,  on  second  thoughts,  I  believe  that  more 
than  one  intermarriage  has  taken  place  between  the  Lyne- 
dons  and  the  Ogilvies.  Katharine,  before  you  go,  bring  me 
that '  Peerage ;'  I  feel  almost  sure  that  there  must  be  some 
connection  between  Mr.  Lynedon  and  ourselves.  Suppose 
he  were  to  turn  out  a  cousin — eh  ?" 


50  THE    OGILVIES. 

"I  should  be  only  too  happy  to  claim  any  relationship 
to  Miss  Ogilvie."  It  was  a  common  phrase  of  courtesy ; 
he  would  have  said  the  same  to  any  one,  especially  a  wom- 
an ;  and  yet  the  blood  rushed  to  Katharine's  cheek,  and  her 
heart  beat  Avildly.  She  hastily  walked  to  the  bookcase; 
but  if  "Debrett's  Peerage"  had  been  written  as  plain  aa 
with  letters  of  phosphorus,  her  eyes  could  not  have  discov- 
ered it. 

But  Lynedon's  practice  of  the  bienseaiices  was  never  at 
fault,  and  the  book  was  soon  in  Sir  James's  hand. 

"Adieu,  my  dear  young  friend.  Katharine,  bring  him 
again  very  soon,"  said  the  Baronet. 

'•  He  must  be  a  very  old  man,  your  grandfather,"  observed 
Paul  Lynedon,  carelessly,  as  they  threaded  once  more  the 
long  passages. 

"  Very  old.  How  kind  of  you  to  talk  to  him  so  much  !" 
Katharine  answered,  in  a  soft,  grateful  accent. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all — not  at  all,  my  dear  Miss  Ogilvie.  But, 
here  is  the  drawing-room  a  very  desert,  with  Miss  Eleanor 
for  its  solitary  rose.  Let  me  have  the  happiness  of  escort- 
ing both  the  fair  cousins  to  the  dining-room." 


CHAPTER  VH. 

As  on  the  finger  of  a  tlironed  queen 

The  basest  jewel  would  be  well  esteemed, 

So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 

To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deemed. 

SlIAKSPEARE. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  hemmed  in  on  one  side  by  the  sedate 
and  somewhat  ponderous  courtesies  of  Mr.  Ogilvie,  and  on 
the  other  by  the  long  inteiwal  of  dinner-table  space  which 
separated  her  from  the  inanities  of  her  husband,  looked  oft- 
en toward  the  other  side,  where  Paul  Lynedon  sat  between 
the  two  foir  cousins,  trying  to  enliven  as  much  as  possible 
the  terrible  solemnity  of  this  always  formal  meal. 

It  is  not  in  human  nature  to  talk  well  during  soup.    This 


THE    OGILVIES.  51 

is  the  case  even  with  the  most  serious  and  earnest  of  con- 
versationalists— those  who,  disliking  tlie  current  nothings 
of  society,  plunge  at  once  into  some  sensible  topic,  so  as  to 
fathom,  if  possible,  the  minds  of  their  associates.  These 
excellent  coral-divers  of  society  find  their  occupation  gone 
at  the  commencement  of  a  dinner-party;  a  few  refreshhig 
clips  over  head,  just  to  try  the  waters,  are  all  they  can  ven- 
ture, until  the  necessary  duties  of  eating  and  drinking  are 
performed. 

Therefore,  since  Ave  aim  not  at  chronicling  every  Avord 
and  action  with  exact  iidelit}^,  even  as  Van  Eyck  painted 
the  hairs  of  a  lapdog's  tail  and  tlie  nails  in  a  floor,  Ave  do 
not  think  it  necessary  to  enumerate  all  the  graceful  trifles 
that  Paul  Lynedon  said,  interesting  his  fair  neighbors  first, 
and  by  degrees  the  eiders  of  the  company.  He  threw  over 
the  commonest  things  a  light  filigree -Avork  of  imagina- 
tion, Avhich,  Avhile  unsubstantial  and  evanescent,  made  ev- 
ery thing  seem  beautiful  for  the  time.  And  is  not  such  an 
art  of  passing  glamour  a  most  beneficial  attainuient  in  this 
weary,  dusty,  matter-of-fact  world  of  ours"? 

When  the  serious  business  of  dinner  had  resolved  itself 
into  the  graceful  dole e  far  niente  of  dessert,  Mi's.  Ogilvie 
observed, 

"  1  hope,  Mr.  Lynedon,  that  my  poor  father  did  not  Aveary 
you  very  much  ?" 

"Not  at  all :  Ave  2:ot  on  admii'ablv  too-ethcr,  did  Ave  not. 
Miss  Ogilvie '?"  And  Paul  turned  to  Katharine,  Avho  gave 
a  delighted  assent. 

"Grandpapa  Avas  delighted  Avith  Mr.  Lynedon,"  she  ob- 
served. "  I  never  saAV  him  more  pleased.  And  Mr.  Lyne- 
don knew  all  about  the  branch  of  his  own  family  of  Avhich 
grandpapa  talked,  so  that  he  could  ansAver  CA^ery  question. 
Where  could  you  get  so  much  information,  Mr.  Lynedon? 
and  hoAV  well  you  seemed  to  remember  every  thing  !" 

"  Perhaps  I  did  not  quite  remember  every  thing.  Miss 
Ogilvie,"  he  ansAvered,  smiling.  "My  history  of  the  Lvne- 
don  pedigree  Avas,  like  hasty  novels,  only  'founded  on  facts.' 
It  seemed  to  please  your  grandfather,  and  I  Avas  delighted 


52  THE    OGILVIES. 

to  secure  his  good  opinion,  even  though  it  entailed  upon 
me  some  exercise  of  imagination.  But — but,"  he  stopped 
and  hesitated,  for  he  met  the  calm  clear  eyes  of  Eleanor 
Ogilvie  fixed  on  his  face  with  an  expression  before  which 
his  own  fell. 

He  grew  confused,  and  tried  to  laugh  the  matter  oif.  "  I 
fear  your  cousin  here  thinks  there  was  something  very 
wicked  in  my  little  extempore  romance.  Yet  I  did  all  for 
the  best.     Let  me  plead  before  my  fair  accuser." 

"  I  am  no  accuser,"  said  Eleanor,  gently. 

"  Surely  Eleanor  Avould  not  say  one  Avord  against  what 
was  done  with  such  kindly  motives,  and  succeeded  so  well 
in  giving  grandpapa  pleasure  ?"  said  Katharine,  while  an 
unwonted  light  kindled  her  dark  eyes.  "It  was  very  kind 
of  Mr.  Lynedon — and  very  right  too." 

Paul  looked  surprised,  perhaps  a  little  gratified.  He 
thanked  his  "  young  defender,"  as  he  called  her,  and 
changed  the  conversation,  which,  by  his  consummate  skill, 
he  caused  to  flow  in  an  easy  and  pleasant  current  until  the 
ladies  retired. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Lynedon  now,  Eleanor?" 
cried  Katharine,  as,  leaving  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  her  hostess 
deeply  engaged  in  a  purely  feminine  discussion  on  dress, 
the  two  cousins  crept  away  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  dressing-room, 
and  there  indulged  in  a  talk. 

"  Under  what  particular  phase  am  I  to  criticise  this  hero 
of  yours,  Katharine?  Do  you  wish  me  to  call  him  hand- 
some r" 

"No;  for  that  would  not  be  true.  But  is  he  not  very 
clever — so  perfect  a  gentleman — so  refined  ?" 

"Too  refined." 

"  How  can  that  be  possible  ?  Keally,  Eleanor,  what  taste 
you  have  !"  said  Katharine,  turning  away. 

"To  speak  candidly,  though  there  were  many  things  in 
Mr.  Lynedon  that  pleased  me  very  much,  there  was  one 
that  I  did  not  like — why  did  he  make  grandpapa  believe 
what  was  not  true  ?" 

"  Because  he  wished  to  give  pleasure,  and  therefore  it 
was  not  wrong — I  am  sure  it  was  not." 


THE    OGILVIES.  53 

"  Now,  Katharine,  I  think  it  was.  Plainly,  what  he  call» 
ed  a  little  romance  was  a  tissue  of  untruths." 

"You  are  very  unjust, Eleanor." 

"  I  hope  not ;  but  you  asked  me  for  my  opinion,  and  how 
can  I  hel])  giving  it  ?  It  seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  Lynedon 
thought  more  of  being  generally  agreeable  than  of  doing 
what  was  right." 

"  There  you  are  at  your  moralizings  again ;  where  did 
you  learn  them  all  ?" 

Eleanor  would  have  been  puzzled  to  answer ;  but,  never- 
theless, her  perception  of  this  man's  character  was  a  true 
one.  He  had  a  keener  desire  to  appear  than  to  be ;  public 
ambition  and  love  of  social  approbation  were  united  in  him, 
and  together  seemed  likely  to  become  so  strong  as  to  ren- 
der invisible  in  his  own  eyes  the  "  indirect  crook'd  ways" 
by  which  he  attained  his  end.  Yet  even  this  fault  had  its 
origin  in  that  natural  longing  after  the  praise  and  love  of 
human  kind,  which  is  the  germ  of  the  noblest  qualities  ot 
our  nature.  It  is  a  creed,  harmless  indeed,  and  inclining 
us  to  patience  and  long-sufl'ering,  that  evil  itself  is  but  an 
ill-regulated  good,  and  has  no  separate  existence.  There 
is  not  a  poison-weed  cumbering  the  ground  that  may  not 
once  have  been  a  flower.  And  it  rests  still  with  the  Great 
Fashioner,  who,  being  all  good,  could  not  create  j^ositive 
evil,  to  stay  the  rampant  growth,  and  to  resolve  each  cor- 
rupted particle  into  its  own  pure  elements. 

We  have  wandered  strangely  from  our  scene,  persons, 
and  conversation ;  yet  such  wanderings  arc  not  uncommon 
in  real  life.  Every  one  must  now  and  then  lift  up  the  cur- 
tain of  his  inner  being,  and  it  is  always  good  so  to  do.  Per- 
haps Eleanor's  "  moralizings,"  as  her  cousin  called  them,  had 
in  some  degree  this  effect,  for  it  is  certain  that  both  she  and 
Katharine  looked  silently  into  the  fire  for  some  minutes  be- 
fore they  attempted  to  move. 

At  last  Katharine  rose,  and  smoothed  her  long  black  hair 
before  the  mirror.  She  looked  for  the  reflection  therein 
more  earnestly  than  she  was  wont,  for  Katharine  was  one 
who  cared  little  for  her  own  personal  appearance — probably 


54  THE    0GELTIE3. 

because,  having  all  her  life  been  told  how  plain  she  was, 
she  now  fully  believed  it,  and  reconciled  herself  to  her  fate. 
But  this  night  a  faint  sigh  revealed  a  few  rebellious  feel- 
ings struggling  in  her  young  bosom. 

"  Eleanor,"  she  said,  ''  it  must  be  very  pleasant  to  be 
beautiful." 

"AYhy — in  order  to  be  admired?" 

"Xot  exactly  so;  but  that  we  might  give  pleasure  to 
others.  Is  not  every  one  glad  to  look  on  what  is  fair?  and 
if  we  could  ourselves  be  as  pleasant  as  pictures  or  statues 
in  the  eyes  of  others,  at  least  of  those  we  love — " 

"A  sweet,  loving  definition  of  a  desu-e  which  I  suppose 
all  have  more  or  less,"  said  Eleanor.  "  What  made  vou 
think  of  it  just  now?" 

'"Because  I  was  looking  at  myself,  and  thinking  how  dif- 
ferent  it  would  be  if  I  saw  a  beautiful  reflection  in  the  glass 
instead  of  that  ugly  face  and  lanky  figure." 

"  My  dear  Katharine,"  answered  her  cousin,  putting  her 
arms  round  the  girl's  neck,  "  do  not  speak  so  of  yourself; 
remember,  you  are  quite  young ;  I  should  not  wonder  if 
you  tunaed  out  a  beauty  yet — tall,  thin  girls  like  you  very 
often  do." 

"Do  you  think  so?  do  you  really  think  so?  Oh,  how 
glad  I  am  !"  And  then  a  sudden  shame  dyed  her  face  and 
neck  crimson.  '■  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  very  vain 
and  foolish  ;  but — but — " 

"  I  think  you  a  wayward,  fanciful,  darling  girl,  and  the 
more  you  let  me  peep  into  your  heart,  no  matter  what  I  see 
thei'e,  the  more  you  will  please  your  cousin  Xelly.  And 
now  let  us  go  down  stairs." 

]Mrs.  Ogilvie  sat  in  one  arm-chaii-,  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  in 
another — two  planets  in  opposition.  They  certainly  be- 
longed to  different  hemisphere.?,  and  no  power  on  earth 
could  make  them  blend  their  light.  Poor  Mrs.  Ogilvie  had 
had  a  most  painful  hunt  after  ideas,  and  now,  wearied  and 
vrorn,  she  fairly  gave  in,  ixnable  to  pursue  the  chase,  and 
determining  to  let  the  conversation  take  its  chance.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  was  one   of  those  inflexible  talkers  who  iciU 


THE    OGILVIES.  55 

choose  their  subject,  and  "  say  their  say,"  without  regard- 
ing the  capabilities  of  their  hearers.  If  the  Latter  under- 
stood and  followed,  well;  if  not,  slie  Jet  them  "toil  after 
her  in  vain"  until  she  had  done,  and  then  passed  on,  rejoic- 
ing in  the  superiority  of  her  own  intellect.  Yet,  at  times, 
she  positively  plumed  herself  upon  her  skill  in  adapting 
her  conversation  to  all  varieties  of  listeners.  Under  this 
idea  she  would  in  these  days  have  entered  a  village  black- 
smith's and  talked  about  Elihu  Burritt,  or  discussed  with 
some  poor  stocking-weaver  Lee's  invention  of  the  loom,  il- 
lustrated by  fragmentary  allusions  to  Elmore's  late  picture 
on  this  subject;  a  speech  on  the  union  of  art  and  manufac- 
tures forming  an  appropriate  winding  up  to  the  Avhole. 

Thus  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  glided  from  the  examination 
of  her  hostess's  dress  to  a  dissertation  on  the  costume  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  varied  by  references  to  Froissart  and  the 
illuminated  manuscripts  of  monkish  times.  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
carried  out  of  her  depth,  struggled  for  a  little,  and  had 
failed  in  her  last  despairing  effort,  just  when  her  daughter 
and  niece  came  to  the  rescue.  Eleanor  saw  at  once  the 
state  of  the  case  by  the  sudden,  half-imploring  glance  which 
her  aunt  turned  to  the  opening  door,  and  the  unchanging 
smile  of  patient  politeness  which  sat  on  her  lips.  Taking 
her  place  by  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  she  relieved  guard,  ingeniously 
sustaining  the  whole  burden  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  conversa- 
tion until  coffee  appeared,  and  with  it  the  wanderer,  Hugh. 

Li  most  after-dinner  female  coteries  the  advent  of  one  of 
the  nobler  sex  produces  a  satisfactory  change,  and  Hugh's 
coming  formed  no  exception  to  the  rule.  His  cheerful  face 
always  brought  sunshine  with  it.  Mrs.  Ogilvie  gathered 
courage,  Mrs.  Lancaster  thawed,  and  the  two  girls  were 
fully  disposed  to  enjoyment.  Only  Katharine,  while  she 
tried  to  interest  herself  in  Hugh's  account  of  his  day's 
sport,  could  not  help  wondering  now  and  then  what  it  was 
that  detained  Paul  Lynedon. 

Lynedon  was  deep  in  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Ogilvie 
concerning  electioneering.  There  was  a  borough  near, 
where  the  Summerwood  interest  still  lingered,  despite  the 

C2 


56  THE    OGILVIES. 

Reform  Act ;  and  Paul's  inward  dream  of  ambition  invest* 
ed  Mr.  Ogilvie's  conversation  with  a  wondrous  charm.  He 
did  not  act — for,  as  we  have  before  stated,  Paul  Lynedon 
was  not  habitually  insincere — but  the  golden  shadow  of 
the  time  to  come,  when  his  host's  friendship  might  be  of 
service,  made  him  regard  many  a  prosy  commonplace  with 
a  feeling  of  real  interest,  and  also  exert  his  own  powers  to 
their  utmost  in  order  to  produce  a  satisfactory  impression. 

When  the  clear  singing  of  a  young  girl  penetrated  to 
the  dining-room,  Paul  first  remembered  he  had  asked  Elea- 
nor the  usual  question, "  Did  she  love  music  ?"  and  the  sud- 
den brightening  of  her  face  had  answered  the  question  bet- 
ter than  her  tongue.  He  felt  sure  that  the  voice  was  hers, 
and  the  future  election,  with  all  its  ingenious  devices,  be- 
gan to  fade  from  his  mind.  When  he  reached  the  draw- 
ing-room door  it  was  quite  obliterated. 

Paul  Lynedon  never  saw  one  cheek  that  glowed  with 
sudden  pleasure  at  his  entrance ;  he  walked  straiglit  to  the 
piano,  and  said  to  Eleanor, "  I  knew  I  was  right.  It  was 
you  who  sang,  was  it  not?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  love  music,  as  I  think  I  told  you." 

"  Will  you  sing  again  for  me  ?" 

"  You  are  quite  unconscionable,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
while  the  faintest  shade  of  acrimony  mingled  with  her  dul- 
cet tone.     "  I  am  sure  she  must  be  tired." 

The  hint  failed ;  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  w^as  doomed  to  a 
little  longer  silence  while  Eleanor  sang  again,  and  yet 
again.  Paul  Lynedon  was  enchanted ;  for  her  voice  was 
the  true  heart-music,  and  it  touched  the  purest  and  inmost 
springs  of  his  nature.  He  Avas  no  longer  the  mere  polished 
gentleman  of  society ;  he  stood  as  Katharine  had  first  be- 
held him — so  silent,  so  deeply  moved,  that  he  forgot  to  pay 
a  single  compliment,  and  even  to  say  "Thank  you." 

He  knew  not  that  Eleanor  had  sung  thus  well  only  be- 
cause she  had  forgotten  his  presence,  his  very  existence;  be- 
cause every  song,  by  rousing  some  hidden  link  of  memory 
and  touching  some  secret  feeling,  carried  her  further  and 
further  away  into  the  dim  past  and  blotted  out  all  the  preM* 


THE    OGILVIES.  57 

ent.  He  guessed  not  that  while  slie  poured  out  her  whole 
lieart,  no  thought  of  him  or  of  his  approval  influenced  the 
soiicf!  that,  though  he  stood  beside  her,  the  face  she  saw 
was  not  his;  and  when  at  last  his  voice  thanked  her,  it  jar- 
red on  her  ear  like  a  painful  waking  from  a  pleasant  dream. 

And  then  her  uncle  and  Mr.  Lancaster  came  with  their 
vapid  acknowledgments.  But  neither  they  nor  the  gentle 
Mrs.  Ogilvie,  who  in  the  good-nature  of  others  saw  the  re- 
flection of  her  own,  and  praised  her  niece  accordingly — nor 
the  v/orldly  fashionable  dame  who,  living  all  for  outside 
show,  secretly  acknowledged  that,  though  done  for  etfect, 
it  was  almost  as  good  as  reality — nor  poor  simple  Katha- 
rine, who  marveled  at  no  inspiration  the  guerdon  of  which 
was  Paul  Lynedon's  praise — not  one  of  these  had  iathomed 
the  truth,  or  knew  how  it  was  that  Eleanor  Ogilvie  had 
sung  so  well. 

The  change  wrought  in  Paul  Lynedou  made  him  seem 
more  attractive  even  in  Eleanor's  eyes.  His  manner  grcw 
earnest,  and  lost  that  outside  gloss  of  almost  annoying  def- 
erence which  characterized  it  when  he  had  talked  with  the 
two  girls  at  dinner.  He  spoke  like  a  man — put  forth  his 
own  opinion  honestly,  even  when  it  differed  from  theirs. 
They  talked — he,  and  Eleanor,  and  Katharine — about  books 
and  music,  and  all  pleasant  things  which  are  a  continual 
feast  to  the  young  and  happy.  Recognizing  Hugh,  Lyne- 
don  drew  him,  almost  against  his  will,  into  the  charmed 
circle ;  conquering  his  reluctance  to  talk,  and  making  him 
feel  interested  upon  subjects  that  otherwise  lie  cared  little 
about.  It  was  rather  an  exertion,  but  Paul  was  in  a  hap- 
py mood.  So  all  conflicting  elements  were  reconciled, 
Lynedon  and  Eleanor  leading  the  way  and  supporting  the 
chief  conversation.  Hugh  was  happy,  for  he  had  Katha- 
rine next  to  him.  She  sat  almost  silent,  veiling  her  dark 
dreamy  eyes  with  their  long  lashes ;  and  at  times,  when 
Paul  Lynedon  spoke  earnestly,  raising  them  to  his  face 
with  a  look  which  once  positively  startled  him  with  its  in- 
tenseness.  Katharine  was  conscious  of  but  one  influence 
•^new,  strange,  delicious — which  breathed  in  his  words, 


68  THE    OGILVIES. 

which  brightened  every  thing  whereon  he  looked.     He 
seemed  to  her  some  glorious  and  divine  creature 

Whose  oveqiowering  presence  made  her  feel 
It  would  not  be  idohitry  to  kneel. 

And  Paul  Lynedon — what  did  he  think  of  her?  Let  his 
own  words  tell. 

"You  seem  delighted  with  the  Ogilvies?"  whispered 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  as,  somewhat  piqued  by  a  dull  evening 
passed  with  the  elders,  she  was  about  to  retire. 

"  Oil,  certainly — delighted  !"  echoed  Paul ;  "  they  are  a 
charming  family," 

"  Especially  the  young  vocalist  ?" 

Lynedon  answered  warmly,  but  laconically,"!  quite 
agree  with  yoti." 

"  And  the  dark-eyed  Katharine  ?" 

"  A  gentle,  thoughtful  creature ;  evidently  full  of  feeling, 
and  so  much  attached  to  her  cousin.  That  fact  alone 
shows  what  she  must  be.  I  like — nay,  I  almost  love  Kath- 
arine Ogilvie." 

And  it  so  chanced  that,  in  passing  by,  Katharine  heard 
the  words  ! 

He  had  said  them  idly,  and  forgotten  them  as  soon  as 
they  were  uttered ;  but  they  gave  a  coloring  to  her  whole 
life. 

Oh  ye  Avho  have  passed  through  the  cloudy  time  when 
youth  is  struggling  with  the  strange  and  mysterious  stir- 
rings of  that  power  which,  either  near  or  remote,  environs 
our  whole  life  with  its  influence — ye  who  can  now  look 
back  calmly  on  that  terrible  mingling  of  stormy  darkness 
and  glorious  light,  and  know  on  what  shadowy  nothings 
love  will  build  airy  palaces  wherein  a  god  might  dwell 
■ — regard  with  tenderness  that  enthusiastic  dream  !  Per- 
chance there  is  one  of  you  who  has  dreamed  like  Katha- 
rine Ogilvie. 


THE    OGILVIES.  59 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Say  never,  ye  loved  once. 
God  is  too  near  above — the  grave  below, 

And  all  oiu"  moments  go 
Too  quickly  past  our  souls,  for  saying  so. 
The  mysteries  of  life  and  death  avenge 

Affections  light  of  range. 
There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change. 

E.  E.  BROvrNixa. 

The  memory  of  the  witliered  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garnered  autumn  sheaf; 

Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ! 
The  right  ear  that  is  tilled  with  dust 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just. — Tennyson. 

There  are  in  our  existence  days  which  are  ages.  True, 
at  such  seasons  the  hours  glide  as  fast — nay,  faster — in 
their  golden  stream ;  but  when  we  look  back  it  seems  as 
though  the  narrow  tide  of  a  single  day  had  swelled  into  a 
life's  flood — a  mighty  ocean  which  upheaves  itself  between 
us  and  the  last  epoch  that  we  called  The  Past. 

It  was  thus  with  Katharine  when  she  arose  next  morn- 
ing. Her  foot  seemed  already  Avithin  the  shining  entrance- 
gate  of  a  new  paradise.  The  old  childish  world  of  a  few 
hours  since  looked  far  distant — and  oh,  how  pale  and  dim  ! 
She  scarcely  turned  her  face  to  gaze  upon  it  now.  All 
night  her  spirit  had  floated  amongst  the  most  delicious 
fancies — and  even  on  her  waking  she  felt  as  still  in  a  dream. 
On  descending,  she  found  that  her  restless  happiness  had 
made  her  the  earliest  riser  in  the  house.  She  lingered  a 
few  minutes  in  the  breakfast-room,  looking  out  on  the  dap- 
pled morning  sky,  and  thinking  how  beautiful  the  world 
was.  Then  she  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  began  to 
pour  out  her  heart's  emotion  to  her  usual  friendly  confi- 
dante— her  piano-forte.     Katharine  loved  music  intensely  ; 


60  THE    OGILVIES. 

but  the  very  sense  which  made  her  feel  so  keenly  the  pow- 
er of  song  rsndered  its  science  irksome  in  the  extreme. 
Still,  though  in  society  she  shrank  from  any  display,  she 
sometimes  sat  alone  for  hours,  her  light  fingers  and  sweet 
but  feeble  voice  weaving  together  all  sorts  of  melodies, 
most  of  which  were  the  inspiration  of  the  moment. 

Now,  almost  unconsciously,  she  glided  into  the  song 
which  Miss  Trevor's  rich  tones  and  Lynedon's  praise  had 
mipressed  upon  her  memory.  She  sang  it  with  her  whole 
heart,  seeing  nothing  save  perchance  one  likeness  which 
her  fancy  conjured  up,  and  which  formed  the  inspiration 
of  the  strain. 

"  TJiank  you,  Miss  Ogilvie,"  said  a  voice  behind — Paul 
Lynedon's  own — for  he  had  entered  softly  ;  "  why  will  you 
Compel  me  to  act  the  spy  in  order  to  attain  such  a  pleas- 
ure as  this  ?" 

Katharine  did  not  answer.  Poor  child !  she  trembled 
like  a  little  bird  in  its  captor's  hands. 

Paul  thought  what  terribly  hard  work  it  was  to  get  on 
at  all  with  young  girls  who  bore  the  lingering  traces  of 
pinafores  and  bread-and-butter.  But  good-nature  urged 
him  to  make  another  attempt. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  sang  at  all,  still  less  that  you 
knew  this  pet  song  of  mine,  which  I  asked  your  cousin  for 
in  vain  last  night.     Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so?" 

"  Because  I  can  not  sing,"  murmured  Katharine;  " I  have 
scarcely  any  voice." 

"Nay,  I  must  differ  from  you  there.  You  have  a  very 
sweet  one,  only  it  wants  power  and  proper  cultivation. 
But  you  sing  with  your  soul,  if  not  with  your  lips;  and 
that  is  what  I  love  to  liear." 

And  then  Lynedon,  to  relieve  her  confusion,  went  on 
talking  in  an  easy,  kind,  quiet  manner  about  the  quality 
of  her  voice  and  the  way  to  strengthen  it.  "  But  what  a 
long  speech  I  am  giving  you — quite  a  lecture  on  music," 
he  added,  laughing. 

"  I  like  to  listen  to  you ;  pray  go  on, "  said  Katharine, 
eimply. 


THE    OGILVIES.  61 

("  So.  here  is  some  improvement ;  we  shall  get  on  in 
time,"  thought  Paul  Lynedon.)  And  then  he  continued: 
"  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that,  as  we  ought  to  let  no  talent 
rust,  you  ought  to  try  to  sing  as  well  as  you  can.  It  may 
not  be  quite  so  charmingly  as  your  cousin,  but  you  will 
give  pleasure  to  many,  as  you  did  to  me  this  morning." 

"  I  am  glad — very  glad,"  said  Katharine,  with  a  bright 
smile,  and  that  earnest  look  which  always  puzzled  Lyne- 
don in  her  intense  dark  eyes. 

"  Thank  you ;  and  you  will  sing  Avhenever  I  ask  you, 
like  a  dear  little  friend  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  thank  you  once  more,"  answered  Paul,  feeling  to- 
ward the  ''little  shy  girl"  a  real  liking,  which  sprang  partly 
from  gratified  self-love  at  having  succeeded  so  well  in  the 
difficult  task  of  dratoing  her  out.  "Then  it  is  agreed,  Miss 
Kathai'ine — Miss  Ogilvie,  I  mean,  for  so  you  are  by  right, 
I  think." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  never  called  so — only  Katharine ;  I  like 
it  best." 

"  Then  I  will  call  you  Katharine,  if  you  will  allow  me." 

Another  quiet  "yes"  sealed  the  compact:  and  thus  was 
woven  one  more  link  of  the  invisible  chain. 

The  time  of  tlie  visit  flew  by  —  the  "  i-est-day"  —  the 
"  prest-day" — and  still  the  guests  lingered,  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  all.  It  is  astonishing  how  soon  an  agreeable  party 
at  a  country-house  seems  to  grow  into  one  familj'-.  It  was 
so  at  Summerwood.  Whatever  passions  were  dawning  to 
life  beneath,  there  Avere  no  stirrings  on  the  surface  to  break 
the  peace  and  harmony  of  that  pleasant  circle. 

Paul  Lynedon  after  a  few  days  began  to  think  of  Eleanor 
a  great  deal  more  than  he  liked  to  confess.  Perhaps  this 
was  because  her  character  burst  upon  him  with  a  freshness 
that  quite  contradicted  his  former  notions  of  women.  She 
was  the  first  who,  if  not  treating  him  with  positive  indif- 
ference, had  at  least  never  sought  in  any  Avay  to  win  his 
attention.  Her  perfect  independence  annoyed  him.  It 
was  in  vam  that  every  time  he  spoke  there  dropped  from 


62  THE    OGILVIES. 

his  lips,  like  the  fairy  gift  of  jDeaiis  and  diamonds,  compli- 
ments graceful  and  refined — the  envied  wonder  of  all  his 
fair  friends  of  old.  But  Eleanor  never  once  stooped  to 
pick  tlieni  up.  Ilis  vanity  was  piqued ;  and,  after  trying 
the  ex])eriment  for  a  short  time  on  Katharine,  he  gave  up 
these  elegant  flatteries,  and  became  his  own  real  self — his 
better  self  But  this  change  only  gained  from  Eleanor  a 
surprised,  pleased,  and  friendly  response.  She  treated  him 
M'ith  greater  warmth,  but  still  with  the  unreserve  and  frank 
kindness  which  she  showed  to  every  one  around  her.  With 
men  of  Lynedon's  character  opposition  is  often  the  great- 
est incentive  to  love.  Before  he  had  been  many  days  in 
her  society,  Paul  was  more  ejyris  with  Eleanor  than  he  had 
ever  been  with  any  woman  during  his  gay  and  mercurial 
life.  Perhajis,  added  to  the  spur  of  wounded  vanity,  came 
the  impulse  of  many  purer  and  higher  feelings  long  dormant 
within  him,  which  her  true  nature  had  awakened  once  moi-e; 
and  the  reverent  admiration  with  which  he  felt  constrained 
to  regard  this  gentle,  single-hearted  girl,  Lynedon's  quick 
temperament  mistook  for  love. 

But,  though  Eleanor's  influence  over  him  grew  stronger 
every  day,  it  was  still  not  strong  enough  to  be  outAvardly 
discernible.  Perhaps  Eleanor  might  have  discovered  it — • 
for  a  woman  generally  sees  intuitively  where  she  is  loved 
■ — but  her  heart  was  too  full  of  one  feeling  to  admit  even 
the  suspicion  of  another. 

There  was  a  second  person  whose  eyes  might  have  been 
open  to  the  elements  for  future  fate  that  were  brooding 
among  the  gay  idlers  at  Summerwood,  But  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter was  deep  in  antiquarian  researches,  traversing  the 
country  with  her  host  as  pioneer;  and  in  this  lady,  love 
for  science — at  least  for  the  eclat  that  science  brings — 
shut  out  even  the  feminine  impulse  of  curiosity. 

So  the  young  people  walked,  rode,  drove  in  the  pleasant 
winter  mornings — sat  by  the  evening  fire,  and  talked,  or 
sang,  or  told  ghost-stories,  until  the  week  ended,  and  with 
it  Mrs,  Lancaster's  peregrinations.  She  spoke  of  going 
home ;  and  after  the  usual  friendly  contest  pro  and  co^?, 


THE    OGILVIES.  03 

the  affair  was  decided.  The  last  evening  came — the  last 
morning.  No  more  would  there  be  of  tliose  social  fii'e- 
sides  at  night,  of  that  merry  breakfast-table  chat.  When 
Katharine  rose  to  answer  her  grandfather's  summons, -she 
felt  this  so  strongly  that,  ere  she  reached  the  hall,  her  eyes 
were  overflowing.  As  she  passed  on  toward  her  grand- 
father's room,  she  heard  Lynedon  call — 

"Katharine,  dear"  —  he  often  called  her  "dear"  now, 
when  they  were  alone  especially — "  tell  Sir  James  I  will 
be  with  him  by  the  time  the  reading  is  finished." 

He  had  usually  come  in  to  aid  her  in  the  task — and  now, 
the  last  day,  every  moment  spent  in  his  sight  became  so 
precious  !  It  was  a  disappointment  that  made  what  was 
ever  a  loving  duty  seem  almost  a  burden. 

Paul  thought  that  during  that  time  he  might  contrive 
to  be  a  few  moments  alone  with  Eleanor;  not  to  tell  her 
he  loved  her — he  was  too  cautious  for  that — but  to  try 
and  eain  some  word  or  look  on  which  his  own  heart  mio-ht 
rest  for  a  time  when  he  should  feel  he  was  no  longer  in  her 
presence.  But  there  was  Hugh,  busy  making  flies,  his  usual 
morning  occupation,  and  continually  calling  out  for  his  sis- 
ter's light  fingers  to  aid  in  the  dubl)ing,  or  to  cut  the  Avings. 
Eleanor,  all-patient  as  she  ^vas,  seemed  quite  content;  but 
Lynedon  grew  restless  and  uncomfortable.  At  last,  seeing 
no  chance  of  the  brief  inter  vie  vv-  he  sought,  he  went  to  Sir 
James's  study. 

Katharine  was  still  reading  ;  but  there  was  a  vacant 
look  in  tlie  old  man's  eyes,  which  seemed  to  imply  that  the 
listener  profited  as  little  as  the  reader.  Every  now  and 
then  he  interrupted  her,  to  ask,  in  a  voice  feebler  than  usu- 
al, some  question  that  betokened  a  wandering  mind.  He 
did  not  notice  Paul's  entrance ;  and  the  young  man  mo- 
tioned to  Katharine  not  to  cease,  Avhile  he  placed  himself 
behind  her  and  looked  over  w^hat  she  read.  It  Avas  an  old 
paper  that  chronicled  the  coronation  of  George  III. ;  and 
Paul  could  not  help  listening  with  a  strange,  almost  painful 
feeling,  to  the  description  of  festivities  shared  by  courtiers 
and  court  beauties  whose  very  memory  had  passed  away. 


64  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  gay  sight,  grandpapa  ?"  said  Kath- 
arine, pausing. 

"Eh!  what  did  you  say,  my  child?" 

Katharine  repeated  her  observation. 

"  Read  that  last  sentence  again,  dear ;  I  don't  think  1 
quite  understood  it.  Indeed,  things  do  not  seem  quite 
clear  here  to-day."  The  old  man  touched  his  forehead 
with  a  feeble  smile,  and  tried  to  attend  while  Katharine 
read.  Then  he  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  said, "  It  is 
of  no  use,  Katharine ;  I  can't  make  it  out.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  It  is  an  account  of  the  coronation  levee,  dear  grandpa- 
pa, and  of  who  were  presented;  look,  here  is  your  own 
name,  Sir  James  Ogilvie,  among  the  rest." 

"  Ah  !  yes — I  remember  I  went — let  me  see,  it  must  have 
been  last  week,  for  the  Gazette  appears  weekly  now.  And 
the  King  has  asked  me  to  go  down  to  Windsor  and  hunt ; 
don't  forget  that,  Katharine  ;  and,  while  I  think  of  it,  ring 
for  Peters,  to  see  about  Ringdove.  His  Majesty  said  there 
was  not  a  finer  hunter  any  where  than  my  Ringdove. 
Make  haste,  love." 

Katharine  looked  imploringly  at  Paul  Lynedon,  who 
stepped  forward. 

"  My  dear  Sir  James,  you  are  thinking  of  things  long 
gone  by." 

"Eh — what — who  are  you,  sir?  I  never  saw  you  be- 
fore," said  the  old  man,  over  whom  a  strange  change  ap- 
peared to  have  come,  for  his  dim  eyes  glittered,  and  he 
moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  "  Katharine,  who  is  this  gen- 
tleman? I  don't  know  him.  What  is  he  going  to  do  with 
me  ?"  and  he  caught  her  hand  uneasily, 

"  Dearest  grandpapa,  it  is  only  Mr.  Lynedon." 

"Lynedon;  ah!  to  be  sure — Viscount  Lynedon.  My 
dear  lord,  you  have  come  from  the  levee ;  perhaps  the 
King  has  invited  you  too  ?  Ah  !  is  it  so  ?  that's  well. 
How  young  you  look !  You  find  me  not  over  strong,  my 
dear  friend,  but  I  shall  soon  be  better — very  soon." 

The  old  man  paused  a  moment  in  his  unusual  volubility, 
and  turned  to  Lynedon  and  Katharine,  neither  of  whom 


THE    OGILVIES.  65 

would  speak.  A  vague  terror  oppressed  the  latter  -,  slie  be- 
came very  pale,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Sir  James 
looked  wistfully  at  her. 

"Who  is  that  lady — I  don't  remember  her?"  he  whis- 
pered to  Lynedon.  Katharine's  tears  overflowed,  and  she 
hid  her  face. 

"It  is  Katharine — your  own  Katharine,"  said  Paul. 

"J/y  oion  Katharine,'''  repeated  the  old  man;  "yes,  it 
must  be  Katharine  —  Katharine  Mayhew.  But  you  mis- 
take, my  lord  ;  you  must  not  call  her  my  Katharine.  Come 
another  day,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it ;  I  can't  now ;" 
and  his  voice  trembled.  "  There  she  is,  weeping  still.  My 
dear  friend,  go  to  her :  we  must  do  as  the  world  does,  and 
if  her  father  should  come  in —  Tell  her  I  did  love  her — I 
did  indeed — and  I  always  shall,  though  they  will  not  let  us 
marry.     Katharine,  my  Katharine,  do  not  weep." 

His  voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  he  leaned 
back  with  closed  eyes,  his  fingers  fluttering  to  and  fro  on 
the  elbows  of  the  chair.  Lynedon  motioned  for  Katharine 
to  speak  to  him. 

"  Are  you  tired,  dear  grandpapa,  or  unwell  ?  Shall  I  call 
any  one  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no  !     I  am  quite  well,  only  tired — so  tired  !" 

"  Is  your  father  in  the  house,  Katharine  ?"  asked  Paul, 
who  felt  more  alarmed  than  he  liked  to  let  her  see. 

"  No ;  he  is  gone  out  with  Mrs.  Lancaster — I  think  to  the 
church." 

"  Church  !"  said  the  old  baronet,  opening  his  eyes  at  the 
word.  "  Are  we  at  the  church  ?  Ah  !  yes,  I  remember  I 
promised.  And  so  you  are  to  be  married,  Katharine  May- 
hew — married  after  all  ?  Well,  well !  This  is  your  bride- 
groom— and  his  name — " 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  you  are  thinking  of  something  else," 
cried  Katharine.  "  Here  is  no  one  but  Mr.  Lynedon  and 
myself." 

"Lynedon  —  so  you  are  going  to  marry  a  Lynedon! 
Well,  I  had  not  thought  so  once.  But  here  we  are,  and  I 
must  say  the  words  myself.     Give  me  your  hands — " 


66  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  Do  not  contradict  him ;  it  is  best  not,"  whispered  l^aut. 

Sir  James  joined  their  liands  together.  Even  at  that  mo- 
ment of  teri-or  and  excitement,  a  wild  thrill  shot  through 
Katharine's  heart,  and  her  very  Lrow  crimsoned  at  the 
touch.  The  old  man  muttered  some  indistinct  sounds,  and 
stopped. 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  service — how  does  it  begin  ?  Ah  ! 
I  remember,"  continued  he,  very  faintly — "  Earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust — " 

Katharine  started  up  and  shrieked  with  terror,  for  her 
grandl'ather  had  sunk  back  in  his  cliair,  white  and  ghastly. 
One  feeble  shudder  convulsed  tlie  aged  limbs,  and  then  all 
was  stillness, 

Paul  and  Katharine — their  hands  still  clasped  together 
— stood  in  the  presence  of  Death. 


CIIx\PTER  IX. 

The  ordinary  use  of  acquaintance  is  a  sharing  of  talk,  news,  drink,  mirth, 
together;  but  sorrow  is  the  right  of  a  friend,  as  a  thing  nearer  the  heart, 
and  to  be  delivered  with  it. — Bishop  Selden. 

She  did  but  look  upon  him,  and  his  blood 
Blushed  deeper,  even  from  his  inmost  heart ; 
For  at  each  glance  of  those  sweet  eyes,  a  soul 
Looked  forth  as  from  the  azure  gates  of  heaven. 

Philip  Bailet. 

"  What  a  sliocking  occurrence — really  quite  unfortunate, 
that  it  should  have  happened  just  now  !"  said  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, as  she  paced  the  drawing-room  in  a  state  of  nervous 
agitation,  half  affected,  half  real.  This  was  some  two  or 
three  hours  after  the  first  excitement  and  terror-stricken 
grief  of  the  family  liad  subsided  into  the  stillness  of  a 
household  which  had  been  invaded  by  Death. 

The  lady's  remark  drew  no  answer  from  Paul  Lynedon, 
who  was  the  only  person  present.  He  sat  leaning  his  head 
on  his  hand,  in  a  grave  attitude. 

"  I  wish  Julian  would  make  haste  with  the  carriage.     I 


THE    0GILVIE8.  67 

shall  be  glad  to  get  away.  It  is  so  very  unpleasant  to  be 
where  there  is  a  death  in  the  house :  it  makes  me  quite 
nervous  !  If  the  old  gentleman  had  but  lived  until  night — • 
Really,  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  wish  you  would  speak  instead  of 
sitting  there  without  uttering  a  word — and  when  you  see 
me  so  agitated,  too." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  began  Paul,  in  an  absent  tone. 
"  Death  is,  indeed,  solemn  !" 

"  Of  course — of  course ;  but  you  know  I  do  not  think 
with  these  stupid  church-going  people.  No  one  of  strong 
mind  would.  There  is  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  witli  her  Bible  quota- 
tions and  her  talk  about  '  submission  ;'  as  if  it  were  not  a 
good  thing  that  the  old  man  is  gone — such  a  trouble  as  he 
was.  Of  course  they  are  all  in  their  heavts  quite  thankful 
for  the  event," 

At  this  moment  a  low  moaning  from  one  of  the  distant 
apartments  reached  the  drawing-room.  Paul  Lynedun's 
countenance  changed  from  the  apathy  with  which  he  had 
listened  to  Mrs.  Lancaster  to  an  expression  of  deep  com- 
passion. 

"Hark !  that  is  Katharine.     Poor  child  !  poor  child  !" 

"  She  has  been  in  hysterics  ever  since  you  carried  her  to 
her  room.  It  is  almost  time  the  scene  were  ended,  I  fan- 
cy," answered  the  lady,  sarcastically. 

"  How  can  you  !"  exclaimed  Lynedon,  with  a  look  of 
grave  reproof;  but  immediately  recollecting  himself,  his 
countenance  resumed  its  usual  expression,  and  he  relapsed 
into  the  silence  which  had  excited  Mrs.  Lancaster's  ani 
madversions. 

She,  on  her  part,  was  becoming  thoroughly  vexed  with 
her  2)}'ote(/e.  For  several  days  he  had  not  paid  her  half  the 
attention  which  she  exacted,  or  wished  to  exact ;  and  now 
it  appeared  to  her  that  his  mind  was  entirely  occupied  by 
thoughts  in  which  she  had  evidently  no  share.  The  lady's 
conjectures  were  right.  At  this  moment  her  worldliness 
and  cold-hcartedness  were  almost  abhorrent  to  Paul  Lyne- 
don. For  days  there  had  been  a  struggle  within  him  be- 
tween the  two  influences,  the  true  and  the  unreal — custom 


68  THE    OGILVIES. 

Oil  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  purity,  simplicity,  and 
nature.  The  latter  were  especially  attractive  as  they  came 
in  the  guis^e  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  Now,  startled,  awed  by 
the  day's  event,  and  brought  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
within  the  presence  of  death — at  least  of  sudden  death — ■ 
Lyncdon  had  jDut  off  for  a  while  the  fictions  which  consti- 
tuted his  outer  self.  To  him  there  was  now  something 
painfully  repugnant  in  the  aftectations  with  which  Mrs. 
Lancaster  broke  in  upon  the  current  of  thoughts  deeper 
and  purer  than  the  young  man  had  indulged  in  for  a  long 
season. 

"Thank  heaven,  there  are  the  carriage-wheels,"  cried 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  had  been  impatiently  beating  time  on 
the  window-panes  with  her  gloved  fingers.  "Xow  we 
shall  get  away  without  meeting  the  family." 

"What!  shall  you  not  see  them  before  you  go?"  asked 
Paul,  with  much  surprise. 

"  Oh  no ;  such  an  intrusion  would  be  indecorous.  I  will 
send  cards  when  I  get  home." 

"  Cards  !  Why,  I  thought,  of  all  woman's  duties  and 
privileges,  there  was  none  so  sacred  as  that  of  consolation. 
Surely  I  have  heard  you  say  so  yourself" 

Mrs.  Lancaster  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  In  other  cases,  certainly  ;  but  in  this  —  however,  my 
dear  friend,  I  can  not  argue  the  point  now,  for  here  is  Ju- 
lian with  the  boxes.  Iically,  it  is  very  disagreeable  to 
wait  upon  ourselves,  and  all  because  of  this  old  gentle- 
man's death.  However,  we  shall  soon  be  at  home.  Of 
course,  you  are  quite  ready,  Mr.  Lynedon  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  do  not  go  just  yet." 

"Not  go  !  And,  pray,  what  is  the  reason  of  this  sudden 
and  most  disinterested  resolution?"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
with  a  smile  of  such  ironical  meaning  that  Paul  Lynedon's 
cheeks  grew  many  shades  deeper  with  annoyance.  But,  as 
was  customary  with  him,  he  showed  his  vexation  only  by 
answering  in  a  tone  more  firm  and  haughty  than  usual. 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,  my  only  reason  is  one  so  trifling  that 
it  hardly  deserves  your  attention.     Merely,  that  having 


THE    OGILVIES.  69 

received  much  courtesy  in  this  house,  I  wish  to  return  it 
by  inquiring  if  in  this  time  of  confusion  and  trouble  I  can 
in  any  way  be  of  use ;  and  so,  with  an  apology  for  troub- 
ling you  with  this  explanation,  allow  me  to  lead  you  to 
your  carriage." 

Verily,  the  stateliness  of  the  whole  Lynedon  race  for  a 
century  back  was  compressed  in  Paul  when  he  chose  to 
exhibit  that  peculiar  manner.  The  petite  graceful  Mrs. 
Lancaster  shrank  into  nothing  beside  the  overwhelming 
courtesy  of  his  demeanor.  They  were  silently  descending 
the  staircase  when  Eleanor  Ogilvie  appeared. 

"How  very  unpleasant!"  and  "How  fortimate !"  cried 
Mrs,  Lancaster,  in  a  breath — the  former  being  of  course 
an  aside.  But  a  glance  at  Eleanor's  face,  which,  though  a 
degree  paler  than  ordinary,  was  perfectly  composed,  freed 
the  departing  guest  from  the  apprehension  of  a  scene,  and 
she  reascended  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  My  dearest  Eleanor,  I  would  fain  have  saved  us  all  the 
pain  of  an  adieu.  These  most  afflicting  circumstances — 
your  feelings — my  own — "  and  here  Mrs.  Lancaster  took 
out  her  pocket-handkerchief 

But  Eleanor  neither  wept  nor  made  any  pretense  of  do- 
ing so. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  sympathy,"  she  answered  ;  "  and, 
since  I  see  you  are  going,  may  I  hope  that  you  will  excuse 
an  omission  which — " 

"  Excuse  !  My  dear  young  friend,  I  would  have  re- 
mained could  I  have  been  any  comfort;  but  I  thought  the 
kindest  act  was  to  intrude  no  longer  on  your  sorrow." 

Eleanor  offered  no  word  of  dissent  to  this  remark ;  and 
Mrs.  Lancaster  felt  so  completely  at  a  loss  that  she  again 
had  recourse  to  her  pocket-handkerchief 

"  You  will  bear  my  adieux  and  condolence  to  your  pAint 
and  to  poor  dear  Miss  Ogilvie,  who  must  be  sadly  afflicted." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  briefly.  She  suffered  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter's veil  to  sweep  her  cheek  in  a  salute,  and  then  held  out 
her  hand  to  Paul  Lynedon,  who  had  stood  by  in  perfect 

silence. 

D 


70  THE    OGILVIES. 

He  took  the  hand,  but  said  quietly,  "I  am.  not  bidding 
you  adieu,  for  I  do  not  return  to  town  until  night ;  perhaps 
I  may  be  of  some  service." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  was  Eleanor's  reply,  "but  we  will 
not  encroach  on  your  good  offices — there  is  no  need." 

"That  is  just  what  I  have  been  telling  him,  Miss  Eleanor; 
he  will  only  be  in  the  way.  You  had  better  come  with  us, 
Lynedon,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

Paul  never  answered  her,  but  raised  his  eyes  to  Eleanor. 
His  look  was  so  full  of  earnest  feeling,  sympathy,  and  sin- 
cere kindliness,  that  she  was  touched.  "You  will  let  me 
stay  if  I  can  be  of  use  to  any  one  here  ?"  he  said,  gently, 
when  Mrs.  Lancaster  walked  forward  in  ill-concealed  im- 
patience. 

"Thank  you,  yes;  do  as  you  will,"  answered  Eleanor, 
while  the  tears  which  affected  sympathy  would  never  have 
'  drawn  forth  confessed  the  influence  of  real  feeling.  The 
traces  of  this  emotion  were  still  on  her  cheek  when  Paul 
Lynedon  returned  to  the  room.  They  went  to  his  very 
heart;  for  men  to  whom  tears  are  unknown  seem  most 
susceptible  to  their  j^ower  in  women.  There  is  probablj^ 
scarcely  any  man  living  who  does  not  feel  his  heart  drawn 
to  the  girl  he  loves — or  even  is  only  beginning  to  love — 
if  he  sees  her  under  the  influence  of  any  grief  deep  enough 
to  call  forth  tears. 

So  it  was,  that  when  Lynedon  came  again  into  Eleanor's 
presence,  his  manner  was  so  subdued,  so  tender,  so  free 
from  all  aftectation,  that  she  had  never  felt  more  inclined 
to  regard  him  with  friendly  feelings.  That  she  could 
either  inspire  or  return  a  warmer  sentiment  had  not  once 
entered  her  mind  with  respect  to  Paul  Lynedon ;  therefore 
her  manner  was  always  frank,  open,  and  kindly,  and  now 
even  gentler  than  usual. 

"  This  is  kind  of  you — very  kind,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand.  He  pressed  it  Avarmly,  as  a  friend  might,  and 
then  let  it  go :  he  could  not,  dared  not  sufl'er  the  exj^res- 
sion  of  love  to  intrude  at  such  a  time. 

"  I  feel  very  much  with  you — indeed  I  do,"  said  Paul's 


THE    OGILVIES.  71 


low,  musical  tones  ;  "  and  that  clear  child,  poor  Katharine 
• — it  was  a  terrible  shock  for  her." 

"Yes,  Katharine  loved  1dm  very  dearly,  and  she  was  the 
darling  of  his  heart.  He  chose  her  name,  and  she  was  his 
godchild.  Poor  grandpapa  !  I  think  he  loved  Katharine 
better  than  any  one  in  the  world.  How  strange  that  no 
one  should  have  been  present  when  he  died  except  you 
and  herself!  Did  he  say  any  thing,  or  seem  to  suffer; 
Poor  Katharine  has  told  us  nothing — indeed,  she  has  been 
weeping  incessantly  ever  since." 

Then  Paul  Lynedon  related  the  scene  in  the  study,  and 
tlie  strange  delusion  under  whicli  Sir  James  had  died.  A 
common  sympathy,  though  one  of  which  neither  was 
aware,  made  Paul  speak  and  Eleanor  listen  with  deep  in- 
terest to  the  touching  memory  of  a  long-past  love. 

"And  he  remembered  her  even  then,  this  Katharine  May- 
hew — how  strange !" 

"  It  is  not  strange,"  said  Paul,  earnestly ;  "  no  man  ever 
forgets  the  woman  wliom  he  first  loved.  The  storms  of  a 
lifetime  may  intervene,  but  that  such  fii-st  true  love  should 
pass  away — never,  never  !" 

Eleanor's  lips  trembled,  lier  bosom  heaved,  and  the  voice 
of  her  soul,  even  more  than  that  of  her  tongue,  echoed  the 
"never!"  It  was  as  the  one  amen  to  tlie  univei-sal  love- 
orison  which  eveiy  young  heart  breathes  at  its  first  awak- 
ening. But  how  rarely  does  each  life's  history  work  out 
the  fulfillment  of  the  prayer!  Not  fiite's  mysteries  only, 
but  the  willfulness,  change,  and  weakness  of  humanity  it- 
self, cast  a  shadow  between  it  and  that  blessed  "  never," 
which,  while  still  believed  in,  is  strength  and  hope.  Love 
is  no  longer  divine  to  us  Avhen  we  find  out,  or  begin  only 
to  suspect,  that  it  is  not  eternal. 

Lynedon  watched  Eleanor's  evident  emotion  with  a  thrill 
of  rapture  which  he  could  scarcely  conceal.  He  interpret- 
ed all  as  a  lover  would  fain  do.  Her  lightest  word,  her 
most  passing  look,  might  then  have  drawn  from  him  the 
confession  of  his  feelings — and  would  surely  have  done  so, 
despite  the  solemn  time  and  place,  had  there  been  in  her  an 


72  THE    OGILVIES. 

answering  love  involuntarily  betrayed.  But  when  Eleanor 
lifted  up  her  face,  the  look  which  met  his  was  so  calm,  so 
unconstrained  in  its  maidenly  frankness,  that  the  most 
anxious,  self-deceiving  lover  could  not  have  discovered  in 
it  the  secret  Avhich  he  miglit  desire  to  see.  Paul  Lynedon 
shrank  back  into  himself;  and  the  passionate  words  which 
liad  risen  almost  to  his  lips  died  away  in  the  ordinary  ex- 
pressions of  feeling  called  forth  by  the  occasion.  Even 
these  were  so  cold  that  Eleanor  seemed  surprised.  She 
looked  in  his  face,  which  Avas  pale  and  agitated,  and  her 
womanly  sympathy  at  once  supplied  the  imagined  cause. 

"  How  ill  you  look,  Mr.  Lyiicdon  !"  said  she,  while  her 
gentle  tone  and  kind  eyes  expressed  more  than  her  words. 
"  We  have  been  thinking  so  much  of  ourselves,  and  have 
forgotten  how  much  this  painful  day  must  have  affected 
you.  Sit  down,  and  let  me  bring  you  a  glass  of  wine, 
Ka}^,  I  will  have  no  refusal." 

Paul  had  no  power  to  refuse.  When  Eleanor  brought 
him  the  wine,  he  took  it  from  her  hand,  drank  it,  and  then 
leaned  his  head  against  the  wall,  incapable  of  uttering  one 
word.  Eleanor  stood  by  him  with  a  feeling  of  deep  inter- 
est, mingled  with  compassion.  At  last  lie  roused  liimself, 
and  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  You  must  pardon  me," 

"There  is  no  need — it  was  a  trying  scene;  no  wonder  it 
affected  you.  I  often  think  that  men  can  less  bear  to  come 
within  the  shadow  of  death  than  women  can.  It  is  our 
fate — it  is  we  who  have  to  meet  the  terrible  One  face  to 
f^ace  !  No  matter  how  regardless  a  man  may  be  during 
his  life  of  all  female  ties,  it  is  from  mother,  wife,  sister,  or 
daughter  that  he  will  seek  the  last  offices  of  kindness,  W^e 
leave  worldly  pleasures  to  you,  but  you  look  to  us  for  com- 
fort at  the  last." 

Eleanor  had  said  all  this — a  long  speech  it  was,  too,  for 
one  of  her  generally  undemonstrative  character — with  the 
kmdly  intention  of  giving  Paul  time  to  recover  himself. 
When  she  ceased,  she  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face 
with  an  intense,  earnest  gaze.  But  the  gaze  was  less  that 
of  a  lover  toward  his  mistress  than  the  upraised,  almost 


THE    OGILVIES.  73 

adoring  look  which  a  Catholic  worshiper  might  turn  to  his 
saint.  And  tliere  was  a  sweetness  and  benignity  uhuost 
mother-like  in  the  placid  lace  that  bent  over  Paul  Lyne- 
don,  and  assuaged  the  troubled  waters  of  his  spirit  until 
they  sank  into  a  cahn. 

"  Have  I  talked  to  you  until  you  are  wearied  ?"  said 
Eleanor,  with  one  of  her  peculiar  shadowy  smiles.  "It  is 
some  time  since  I  have  said  so  much  on  my  own  account. 
How  much  longer  would  you  listen,  I  wonder?" 

"Forever!  forever!"  muttered  Paul  Lynedon. 

"  What  were  you  saying  ?"  inquired  the  unconscious 
Eleanor. 

Paul  recollected  himself  at  once. 

"That  you  are  very  kind  and  thoughtful — just  like  a 
woman — and  that  I  am  ashamed  to  have  given  you  so 
much  trouble." 

"  Then  you  feel  quite  well  now  ?  If  so,  I  will  go  up  to 
see  poor  Katharine." 

"Not  yet — not  yet,"  Lynedon  liastilj  interposed.  "You 
were  to  tell  me  if  there  is  any  thing  I  can  do  in  London — 
any  business  to  arrange ;  or,  if  not  to-day,  can  not  I  ride 
back  here  to-morrow  and  see  ?  You  know  not  what  pleas- 
ure it  would  give  me  to  do  any  thing  for  you — that  is,  for 
the  family." 

"I  am  sure  of  it — I  know  how  good  you  are.  But  my 
uncle  and  Hugh  can  arrange  every  thing." 

"  Nay,  your  brother  is  out  ten  miles  off  in  the  forest. 
Shall  I  ride  over  to  meet  him,  and  inform  him  of  this  sad 
event?" 

"Thank  you,  but  we  have  already  sent;  indeed,  Mr. 
Lynedon,  there  is  really  no  need  for  the  exercise  of  your 
kindness.  And  since,  to  be  frank  with  you,  my  uncle  and 
aunt  will  like  best  to  see  no  one  except  Hugh  and  myself, 
I  will  positively  send  you  away." 

"  But  I  may  come  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  only  to 
inquire  after  you  all,  and  perhaps  see  yourself  or  your 
brother  for  a  few  minutes.  It  Avill  be  a  satisfaction  to 
me ;  and  Mrs.  Lancaster,  too,  M'ill  be  glad—" 


14  TUE    OGILVIES. 

Eleanor's  countenance  changed  a  little — a  very  little: 
she  was  so  sincere  that  even  a  passing  thought  ever  cast 
some  reflection  on  her  flice.  Her  companion  saw  it,  and 
hastened  to  remove  the  impression. 

"You  must  not  judge  of  me  by — that  is,  I  mean  to  say 
that  a  man  is  not  accountable  for  the  faults  of  his  friends, 
or — or — acquaintances."  There  was  some  confusion  in  his 
speech,  which  was  not  removed  by  Eleanor's  total  silence. 

"I  wish  you  to  think  well  of  me — indeed  I  do,"  the  young 
man  continued.  "1  know  there  is  much  in  me  wrong  ;  but 
then  I  have  been  left  to  myself  since  boyhood — for  years 
have  not  had  a  home,  a  mother,  or  a  sister;  and  so  I  have 
grown  more  worldly  than  I  ought  to  be.  For  this  reason, 
now,  in  going  away,  I  feel  how  much  I  owe  for  the  pleas- 
ant and  good  influence  of  this  week  to  you,  who — " 

Paul  was  again  treading  on  dangerous  ground,  but  once 
more  Eleanor's  comjiosure  saved  him. 

"I  am  glad  we  have  made  you  hap])y.  We  wished  to 
do  so  ;  and  it  has  been  a  pleasant  week  to  us  all  but  for  its 
sad  ending.  And  now,  Mr.  Lynedon,  since  I  am  the  only 
one  of  the  household  who  can  take  leave  of  you,  let  me 
thank  yon  again  on  the  part  of  all,  and  say  good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  repeated  Paul,  as  he  lingeringly  opened  the 
door  for  her,  and  watched  her  light  figure  ascend  the  wind- 
ing staircase.  When  she  disappeared,  his  breast  relieved 
itself  with  a  heavy  sigh.  He  rode  home  fully  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  the  star  of  his  life,  now  and  for- 
ever, was  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

There  was  a  dearree  of  irresolution  in  the  character  of 
Lynedon  tliat  caused  him  often  to  be  swayed  against  his 
will.  With  him  the  past  or  the  future  was  always  sub- 
servient to  the  influence  of  the  present.  So,  when  he  had 
ridden  to  Summerwood  three  times  in  the  first  week  after 
Sir  .James's  death,  and  thereupon  borne  a  considerable 
number  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  smiles  and  innuendoes,  he  be- 
gan to  feel  that  there  was  some  cause  for  the  neglect  of 
which  that  lady  accused  her  guest.  As  the  charms  of 
Summerwood  grew  dim  iu  the  attraction  of  successive  in- 


THE    OGILVIES.  V5 

tellectual  dissipations — for  it  is  due  to  Paul  to  say  that  no 
others  could  have  any  iniluence  over  his  fine  mind — it  so 
chanced  that  for  the  next  fortnight  he  never  went  near  the 
Ogilvie  family. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  transition  from  sorrow  to  joy  is  easiest  in  pure  minds,  as  the  true 
diamond,  when  moistened  by  the  breath,  recovers  its  lustre  sooner  than 
the  false. — Jean  Paul. 

He  stood  beside  me 
The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream 
That  like  a  dawn  heralds  the  day  of  life  : 
The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 
A  paradise.     All  familiar  things  he  touched, 
All  common  words  he  spake,  became  to  me 
Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 
He  was  as  is  the  stm  in  his  fierce  youth. 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  the  tempest. 
He  came — and  m  ent — and  left  me  what  I  am. 

Shelley, 

Katharine  Ogilvie  sat  in  the  room  which  had  so  long 
been  her  grandfather's.  It  was  now,  by  her  own  desire, 
virtually  resigned  to  herself  None  of  his  own  children 
had  loved,  and  been  loved  by.  Sir  James  Ogilvie  like  this 
young  girl,  avIio  liad  sprung  up  in  the  third  generation — a 
late-given  flower — to  cast  sweetness  over  his  old  age.  So 
Katharine  seemed  to  have  a  right  beyond  all  others  to  his 
room  and  to  every  thing  that  had  belonged  to  him.  When 
she  recovered  from  the  grief  and  agitation  which  for  some 
days  had  amounted  to  real  ilhicss,  she  took  possession  of 
the  study  without  any  opposition,  except  that  her  mother's 
anxious  tenderness  feared  lest  the  scene  of  waning  life  and 
awfull}^  sudden  death  miglit  have  a  painful  eifect  on  a  mind 
so  young. 

But  Katharine  seemed  to  have  arisen  from  this  trance  of 
pain  and  suffering  with  a  new  character.  During  tliat  week 
of  illness  she  had  merged  from  the  cliild  into  the  Avoman. 


76  THE    OGILA'IES. 

A  change  had  passed  over  her  —  the  life-cliange,  wlierein 
the  lieart  awakes,  as  out  of  sleep,  to  feel  with  a  terrible 
vividness  the  reality  of  those  pulses  which  had  faintly 
stirred  in  its  dreams. 

Katharine  knew  that  the  power  of  which  she  had  read 
and  mused  had  come  upon  her  own  soul.  She  felt  in  her- 
self the  truth  of  what  she  had  seen  shadow^ed  forth  in  ro- 
mance and  song :  she  knew  that  she  loved. 

It  is  with  a  sensation  almost  amounting  to  fear  that  a 
young  maiden  first  discovers  the  real  presence  of  the  life- 
influence  in  her  heart — when  she  feels  that  her  existence 
no  longer  centres  in  itself  alone,  but  has  another  added  to 
it,  wdiich  becomes,  and  wdll  become  more  and  more,  dear 
as  its  very  soul.  Katharine,  who  in  her  unconscious  sim- 
plicity had  given  herself  up  so  entirely  to  the  pleasant  rev- 
erie of  which  Paul  Lynedon  was  the  presiding  spirit,  almost 
shuddered  when  the  light  broke  in  ujjon  her  and  told  her 
that  dream  was  her  life.  "With  her,  love  was  not  that  girl- 
ish fancy  which  is  born  of  idleness,  nourished  by  vanity, 
and  dies  in  a  few  months  of  sheer  inanition,  to  revive  again 
in  some  new  phase,  and,  so  transferred  from  object  to  ob- 
ject, live  out  its  scores  of  petty  lives,  until  it  fairly  wears 
itself  oiit,  or  settles,  at  the  call  of  duty  or  of  interest,  with- 
in the  calm  boundaries  of  matrimonial  necessity.  Words 
can  not  too  much  ridicule  or  condemn  this  desecration. 
But  a  pni'c -hearted  woman's  sincere,  true,  and  life -long 
love,  awakened  by  what  either  is  or  she  deems  to  be  noble 
and  perfect  in  her  ideal,  and,  as  such,  made  the  secret  relig- 
ion of  her  heart,  whereon  no  eye  may  look,  yet  which  is  the 
hidden  spring  influencing  all  her  thoughts  and  actions — 
this  love  is  a  thing  most  sacred,  too  solemn  to  be  lightly 
spoken  of,  too  exalted  to  need  idle  pity,  too  holy  to  awaken 
any  feeling  fiave  reverence. 

And  such  a  love  was  Katharine's  for  Paul  Lynedon. 

She  sat  in  her  grandfather's  chair,  her  brow  resting 
against  the  same  cushion  where  in  death  had  fallen  the 
aged  head  now  hidden  away  in  eternal  repose.  Katharine 
turned  away  from  the  light  and  closed  her  eyes.     Her 


TUK    OGILVIES.  77 

hands  lay  crossed  on  her  knee,  their  extreme  and  almost 
sickly  whiteness  contrasting  with  her  black  dress.  She 
was  no  longer  an  invalid,  hut  a  dreaminess  and  languor 
still  hung  over  her,  giving  tlieir  own  expression  to  her  face 
and  attitude.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  sit  still  and  think — one 
so  great,  that  she  often  suffered  her  parents  and  Hugh  to 
suppose  her  asleep  rather  than  be  disturbed  by  conversa- 
tion. 

The  room  was  so  quiet  that  she  might  have  been  alone ; 
but  Hugh,  who,  ever  since  lier  recovery,  had  followed  Ijer 
like  a  shadow,  sat  at  the  window,  making  his  eternal  flies 
— at  least,  that  Avas  his  excuse  for  remaining  with  her  in 
the  study — but  he  looked  oftener  at  Katharine  than  at  his 
work.  So  silent  and  quiet  was  he  that  she  had  entirely 
forgotten  his  presence,  until,  waking  fi'om  lier  reverie  witli 
a  half-suppressed  sigh,  she  saw  him  creep  softly  to  her 
chair. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,  Katharine ;  are  you  awake 
now?"  he  said,  affectionately. 

Katharine's  answer  was  a  smile.  She  felt  very  grateful 
to  Hugh,  who  had  been  her  chief  companion  for  some  days, 
and  had  striven  in  every  way  to  amuse  her.  He  had  given 
up  the  finest  hunt  of  the  season  to  stay  at  home  with  lier ; 
and,  after  in  vain  tr3dng  to  interest  her  in  the  adventuies 
of  every  fox  killed  during  the  winter,  had  finally  ottered 
to  read  aloud  to  her  out  of  any  book  she  liked,  provided  it 
was  not  poetry.  But  the  time  was  gone  by  when  the  lin- 
gering childishness  of  Katharine's  nature  would  sympa- 
thize with  those  purely  physical  delights  of  excj-cise  and 
outdoor  amusement  which  constituted  Hugh's  world.  She 
tried  to  liide  this  from  him,  and  attempted  to  enter  into 
every  thing  as  usual ;  but  it  would  not  do.  The  day 
lagged  very  heavily ;  and  though  Hugh  was  too  good-na- 
tured to  allude  to  the  hunt,  it  recurred  sorrowfully  to  liis 
mind  as  he  saw  from  the  study  windows  a  few  moving 
specks  of  scarlet  sweeping  along  the  distant  country.  At 
last,  when  a  horse's  feet  Avere  heard  up  the  avenue,  he 
could  rest  quiet  no  longer. 

D2 


78  THE    OGILVIES. 

"It  is  surely  one  of  the  men  from  the  hunt;  I  will  just 
go  and  speak  to  liini,  and  ask  hhn  to  have  some  lunch. 
You  will  not  mind  being  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  dear 
Katliarine?" 

"  Oh  no— not  at  all !  You  are  only  too  kind  to  me, 
cousin  Hugh  ;  pray  go  and  enjoy  yourself" 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  Katharine  leaned  back  in 
'quiet,  dreamy  solitude.  She  thought  of  her  grandfather — 
how  soon  every  memory  of  him  hud  }>;issed  away  fi'om  the 
household;  how  even  the  long  life  of  eighty  years,  with  all 
its  ties  and  all  its  events,  had  become  like  a  shadow — had 
crumbled  into  nothing  at  the  touch  of  death ;  so  that  in 
the  world  not  even  a  month's  void  was  left  by  the  human 
soul  now  departed.  And  then  Katharine's  mind  reverted 
to  the  closing  scene  of  his  life;  the  old  man's  vague  wan- 
dering words,  which  she  felt  referred  to  some  memory  of 
his  youth  that  he  had  strangely  connected  with  her,  not 
knowino;  tliat  the  universal  chord  thus  touched  in  the 
shadowy  past  had  found  its  echo  in  the  present.  The 
same  impulse  swayed  the  spirit  then  passing  away  and  that 
just  entering  upon  its  world-struggles.  Amid  the  solemn 
mournfulness  of  this  death  -  vision  came  the  remembered 
face  of  Paul  Lynedon  ;  the  gentle  sympathy  of  his  look, 
the  touch  of  his  hand,  tlie  strange  symbolizing  of  their 
united  fate — for  so  it  might  prove — who  could  tell?  And 
Katharine  gave  herself  up  to  the  wild  love-reverie  of  early 
youth. 

In  the  midst  of  it  the  door  opened,  and  Lynedon  himself 
stood  by  her  side. 

Katharine  had  never  seen  him  since  the  moment  when, 
half  insensible,  she  had  felt  herself  borne  in  his  arms  from 
the  chamber  of  death.  Now,  he  came  so  suddenly  into  her 
presence  that  at  the  sight  of  him  her  heart  seemed  to  sus> 
pend  its  beatings.  Not  a  word  came  from  her  colorless 
lips,  and  the  hand  that  Paul  took  between  his  own  felt 
like  marble. 

"  Dear  Katharine,  I  fear  I  have  startled  you,"  he  said, 
anxiously ;  "  but  I  so  longed  to  see  you.     I  never  thought 


THE    OGILVIES.  79 

of  all  the  pnst  —  tliis  room,  too  —  how  foolish  it  was  of 


I" 


me 

Katharine  drooped  her  head  and  burst  into  tears. 

Paul's  kindly  feelings  were  roused.  He  waited  until 
Katharine's  emotion  had  somewhat  exhausted  itself,  and 
then  laid  her  head  back  on  the  cushion,  smoothing  her  soft 
black  hair  with  his  hand  as  gently  and  soothingly  as  an 
elder  brotlier  or  father  might  have  done. 

"Poor  Katharine,  dear  Katharine,  you  have  suffered 
much  ;  but  we  will  not  think  of  it  any  more  now.  Let  us 
talk  about  something  else,  and  I  will  sit  by  you  until  you 
have  quite  recovered  yoiu-self  Do  not  grieve  so  much  for 
him  you  have  lost — tluik  of  those  you  have  still  Katha- 
rine, dearest,  think  of  all  who  love  you." 

A  happy  smile  broke  through  Katharine's  tears,  and  a 
faint  color  flitted  over  her  cheek.  The  words  were  very 
tender — made  still  more  so  by  the  inexpressible  sweetness 
of  the  tone.  What  music  there  was  at  times  in  PaulLyne- 
don's  voice !  No  Avonder  it  should  echo  in  that  poor  self- 
deceiving  heart  like  a  celestial  melody. 

The  first  tender  impulse  over,  Mr.  Lynedon  seemed  to 
think  he  had  consoled  her  sufticiently,  and  resumed  the 
ordinary  tones  of  common  life. 

"I  have  not  yet  inquired  after  your  father  and  mother; 
they  are  well,  I  hope  ?     May  I  not  see  them  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Katharine. 

"And  your  cousin — Miss  Eleanor?"  Paul's  head  here 
turned  toward  the  fire,  and  his  fingers  busied  themselves 
in  playing  with  a  loose  tassel  on  the  arm-chair. 

"Eleanor  is  very  well.     I  had  a  letter  from  her  to-day," 

"  A  letter !" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  sent  for  a  week  since  by  her  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Breynton.  She  told  me  to  say  how  sorry  she  was 
not  to  bid  you  adieu ;  indeed,  we  half  expected  you  every 
day  last  week." 

A  slight  exclamation  of  vexed  surprise  rose  to  Paul's 
lips,  but  he  suppressed  it,  and  only  tore  the  tassel  into 
small  bits.     No  indication  of  what  was  in  his  mind  con- 


80  THE    OGILVIES. 

veyed  itself  to  Katharine's ;  she  sat  with  her  sweet,  down« 
cast  eyes  and  trembling  lij^s,  drinking  in  nothing  but  deep 
happiness. 

For  him,  he  concealed  his  disappointment,  only  saying, 
in  a  soft,  earnest  way, 

"  How  very,  very  sorry  I  am  !  Nothing  but  the  hard- 
est necessity  could  have  made  me  stay  away  from  Sum- 
merwood  a  whole  fortnight.  You  believe  that,  Katha- 
rine ?" 

Katharine  did  not  know  whether  to  say  yes  or  no.  She 
was  in  a  rapturous  dream,  whose  light  flooded  and  dazzled 
all  her  thoughts  and  senses. 

"But  you  will  forgive  me,  and  ask  your  cousin  to  do  the 
same  when  you  write  ?     Will  that  be  soon  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  we  write  very  often,  Eleanor  and  I." 

"How  pleasant !"  said  Paul  Lynedon,  while  his  thoughts 
flew  far  away,  and  the  few  words  with  which  he  tried  to 
keep  up  the  conversation  only  sufiiced  to  make  it  more 
confused  and  broken.  Katharine  never  noticed  how  ab- 
sent his  manner  grew.  She  was  absorbed  in  the  happiness 
of  sitting  near  him,  hearing  him  speak,  and  stealing  glances 
now  and  then  at  his  face.  And  pcrhai^s,  had  she  considered 
the  matter  at  all,  his  silence  would  have  only  seemed  an- 
other token  of  the  blessed  secret  which  she  fancied  she 
read  in  the  deep  tenderness  of  his  words  and  manner. 

To  him  the  time  passed  rather  wearily:  it  was  a  duty 
of  kindness  and  consideration,  at  first  pleasant,  then  some- 
what dull — possibly  it  was  a  relief  when  fulfilled.  To  her, 
the  bliss  of  a  year — nay,  of  a  lifetime — was  comprised  in 
that  one  half  hour.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  a  dizzy 
trance  of  confused  joy,  formless  and  vague ;  but  in  after- 
hours  it  grew  distinct ;  each  word,  each  look,  each  gesture 
being  written  on  her  heart  and  brain  in  letters  of  golden 
light,  until  at  last  they  turned  to  fire. 

Hugh  came  in,  looking  not  particularly  pleased.  Though 
he  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  his  sister  Eleanor  was  Paul 
Lynedon's  chief  attraction  at  Summerwood,  he  never  felt 
altogether  free  from  a  vague  iealousy  on  Katharine's  ac- 


THE    OGILVIES.  81 

count.  But  the  warmth  Avith  which  liis  suj^posed  rival 
met  Iiim  quite  reassured  the  simple-hearted,  good-natured 
Hugh ;  and  while  the  two  young  men  interchanged  greet- 
ings, Katharine  crept  away  to  her  own  room. 

There,  when  quite  alone,  the  full  tide  of  joy  Avas  free  to 
flow.  With  an  emotion  of  almost  child-like  rapture  she 
clasped  her  hands  above  her  "head. 

"  It  may  come  —  that  bliss  !  It  may  come  yet !"  she 
murmured ;  and  then  she  repeated  his  words — the  words 
which  now  ever  haunted  her  like  a  perpetual  musio — I 
almost  love  Katharine  Ogilvie!  "It  may  be  true  —  it 
must  be;  else  he  never  would  talk  to  me  thus — look  at 
me  thus.  For  I — how  could  I  hear  such  Avords,  meet  such 
looks,  from  any  other  man  but  he  !  It  must  be  true.  He 
does  love  me.     How  happy  am  I !" 

And  as  she  stood  with  her  clasped  hands  pressed  on  her 
bosom,  her  head  thrown  back,  the  lips  parted,  the  eyes 
beaming,  and  her  wdiole  form  dilated  with  joy,  Katharine 
caught  a  sight  of  her  image  in  the  opposite  mirror.  She 
was  startled  to  see  herself  so  fliir.  There  is  no  beautifier 
like  happiness,  especially  the  happiness  of  love.  It  often 
seems  to  invest  Avith  a  halo  of  radiance  the  most  ordinary 
face  and  form.  No  Avonder  that  under  its  influence  Kath- 
arine hardly  kncAV  her  OAvn  likeness. 

But,  in  a  moment,  a  delicious  consciousness  of  beauty 
stole  over  her.  It  was  not  vanity,  but  a  passionate  glad- 
ness that  thereby  she  might  be  more  worthy  of  him.  She 
drew  nearer ;  she  gazed  almost  lovingly  on  the  bright 
young  face  reflected  there,  not  as  if  it  w^ere  her  oAvn,  but 
as  something  fair  and  precious  in  his  sight,  Avhich  accord- 
ingly became  the  same  to  hers.  She  looked  into  the  depths 
of  the  dark  clear  eyes — ah !  one  day  it  might  be  his  deliglit 
to  do  the  same.  She  marked  the  graceful  curA^es  of  tlie 
round  Avhitc  hand — the  same  hand  Avhich  had  rested  in 
his  :  jierhaps  the  time  might  come  Avhen  it  would  rest 
there  forever.  "  Blessed  hand  ! — oh  dear,  dear  little  hand 
of  mine  !"  And  she  kissed  it  more  than  once,  till  she  be- 
gan blushing  at  her  own  folly. 


82  THE    OGILVIES. 

Simple,  child-like  Katharine — a  child  in  all  but  luvc — if 
thou  couldst  have  died  in  that  dream  ! 

The  sudden  delirium  of'joy  passed  away,  and  left  a  still 
gladness  which  li<^hted  up  her  eyes  and  trembled  in  her 
lips,  making  lier  Avhole  countenance  beautiful.  As  she 
Avent  down  to  dinner,  she  passed  the  open  door  of  the 
study,  and  entered  it  for  a  moment.  How  changed  it 
seemed  !  the  memorial  altar  of  Death  had  become  the 
sanctuary  of  Love.  A  little,  Katharine's  heart  smote  her; 
and  a  few  tears  fell,  awakened  by  one  sudden  thought  of 
him  who  was  gone.  But  how  could  the  dear,  yet  now 
faint  memory  of  the  dead  contend  with  the  fresh,  glad 
fount  of  youth  and  first  love  that  sprang  up  in  her  heart, 
filling  it  with  sunshine  and  singing  evermore,  until  the 
light  and  the  music  shut  out  all  sorrowful  siiihts  and 
sounds,  or  changed  them  into  joy.  It  could  not  be ;  it 
never  is  so  in  this  world.  And  Nature,  who  makes  the 
greenest  grass  and  tlie  brightest  flowers  to  gi"ow  over 
graves,  thus  teaches  us  that  in  tliis  ever-renewed  current 
of  life  there  is  deej)  wisdom  and  infinite  love. 

Paul  Lynedon  staid  all  day.  It  was  a  day  of  quiet  pleas- 
ure to  every  one.  Mr. — or,  as  Paul  found  some  difticulty 
in  calling  him,  Sir  Robert — Ogilvie  was  glad  to  have  a  talk 
about  politics,  and  liis  lady  was  delighted  that  a  visitor 
had  at  last  arrived  to  break  the  formal  gloom  of  a  house- 
hold over  which  death  had  passed,  but  scarcely  sorrow. 
Hugh  had  an  engagement  elsewhere.  This  fact,  while  Sir 
Kobert  took  his  after-dinner  nap,  cost  Lady  Ogilvie  a  long 
apology,  which  her  guest  thought  infinitely  more  weari- 
some than  the  circumstance  for  Avhich  it  was  meant  to 
atone. 

"Though  casting  no  reproach  on  j^our  nephew's  agree- 
able society,"  said  the  polite  Lynedon,  "  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  Lady  Ogilvie,  that  I  shall  be  quite  content,  and  in- 
deed gratified,  to  have  your  daughter  all  to  myself  for  a 
whole  evening — such  good  friends  as  we  are.  Is  it  not  so, 
Katharine?"  and  he  took  the  young  girl's  hand  with  the 
affectionate  familiarity  which  lie  had  established  between 


THE    OGILVIES.  83 

tlicm.     How  bright,  how  joyful,  were  the  answerhig  blush 
and  smile ! 

Paul  Lyneclon  saw  both.  He  was  flattered  at  having  so 
completely  conquered  the  shyness  of  this  young  creature, 
who,  in  the  intervals  of  his  sudden  i:)assion  for  Eleanor,  had 
at  once  interested,  amused,  and  puzzled  him.  He  could  not 
but  perceive  the  admiring  reverence  of  himself  which  her 
•whole  manner  unconsciously  showed  ;  and  a  proud  man 
likes  to  be  worshiped  and  looked  up  to,  especially  by  the 
other  sex.  To  be  sure,  Katharine  was  still  a  mere  child ; 
but  there  was  something  even  in  the  devotion  of  a  young- 
girl  that  gratified  his  self-esteem  and  love  of  approbation 
— both  very  strong  in  Paul  Lynedon. 

So  his  manner  toward  Katharine  took  a  deeper  and  ten- 
derer meaning — more  so  than  even  he  intended  it  should. 
Thouo;h  the  other  fair  image  which  he  fancied  so  dear  still 
lingered  in  his  heart,  and  he  was  haunted  all  that  evening 
with  shadowy  visions  of  Eleanor,  still  he  talked  to  Katha- 
rine as  men  will  idly  talk,  never  dreaming  that  every  low 
tone,  every  tender  look,  thoughtlessly  lavished  on  an  inter- 
esting girl,  went  deep  to  the  most  passionate  recesses  of  a 
"woman's  heart. 

After  tca,Paurs  eyes  wandered  to  the  little  recess  where 
harp  and  piano  stood.  Perhaps  his  lover-like  fancy  conjured 
up  there  the  sweet  calm  face  and  bending  figure  of  Eleanor. 

"You  feel  dull  Avithout  music.  Is  not  that  what  you 
are  thinking  of?"  inquired  Katharine,  timidly. 

A  tacit  prevarication,  by  which  more  tender  consciences 
than  Paul's  often  deem  it  no  wrong  to  compromise  truth, 
enabled  him  to  answer  "Yes;  I  Avas  wishing  to  ask  you  to 
sing,  but  did  not  like  so  soon  after — "  and  he  stopped. 

Katharine  looked  grave,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not.  Yet  he  always  loved  to  see  me 
happy,  and  he  liked  you  so  much !  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  will 
try  to  sing  if  it  Avill  give  you  any  pleasure.  May  I  not, 
mamma?" 

But  Lady  Ogilvie  had  gone  comfortably  to  sleep  in  the 
inner  drawing-room. 


84  THE    OGILYIES. 

Katharine  sang — it  was  wonderful  how  much  she  had 
impi-oved.  Paul  listened,  praised,  and  made  her  try  over 
all  his  favorites  which  Eleanor  had  sung  to  him.  Katlia- 
rine  saw  his  earnest,  almost  abstracted  look ;  she  knew  not 
that  he-Avas  touched  less  by  the  present  than  by  recollec- 
tions of  the  happy  past  and  vague  plans  for  the  future — a 
future  now  all  centred  in  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  thoughts  and  projects  Paul 
felt  happy.  He  took  leave  of  the  family,  of  Katharine  espe- 
cially, with  a  cheerful,  tender  light  in  his  eyes — those  beau- 
tiful soft  gray  eyes,  which  at  times  were  more  eloquent  than 
even  his  tonijue. 

"  I  am  going  a  short  journey,  but  I  shall  not  be  away 
long.  A  fortnight,  at  farthest,  will  see  me  again  at  Sum- 
merwood." 

"We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  cordially;  "you  see  we  make  you  quite  one  of  the 
family." 

"  It  is  my  greatest  ha])piness,"  answered  Paul,  with  a 
delighted  look,  and  a  tone  of  deeper  earnestness  than 
Katharine  had  ever  heard  him  use.  It  made  her  little 
heart  flutter  wildly.  Quicker  still  it  throbbed  when  Lyne- 
don entreated  Sir  Robert  not  to  stir  from  the  fireside. 
"  Your  good-by  and  good-speed  shall  be  the  last,  dear 
Katharine,  if  you  will  come  with  me  to  the  door." 

She  did  so,  trembling  all  over.  Wlien  they  stood  to- 
gether in  the  hall,  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  held 
them  there  for  a  long  time,  looking  down  tenderly  upon 
her  agitated  face. 

"You  will  think  of  me  when  I  am  away  ?"  he  whispered, 

"Yes,"  was  all  she  could  answer. 

"And  you  will  remember  me — you  will  love  me— until 
I  come  again  ?" 

This  time  no  answer — none.  But  he  saw  that  her  slight 
frame  quivered  like  a  reed,  and  that  the  large  limpid  eyes 
which  she  raised  to  his,  for  one  instant  only,  were  swim- 
ming in  tears.  As  he  gazed,  a  thrill  of  pleased  vanity,  not 
unmingled  with  a  deeper,  tenderer  feeling,  came  over  Paul 


THE    OGILVIES.  85 

Lynedon.  With  a  sudden  impulse — ho  was  always  gov- 
erned by  impulses — he  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  tear- 
ful eyes,  the  trembling  lips,  which  had  silently  betrayed  so 
much. 

"  God  bless  you,  Katharine — dearest  Katharine  !"  were 
his  last  words.  Their  echoes  rang  through  her  life  for 
years. 

Lynedon,  as  he  rode  home,  felt  rather  annoyed  that  he 
had  committed  himself  in  this  way.  But  he  could  not 
help  it — she  looked  so  pretty.  And  then,  she  was  a  mere 
child  after  all,  and  Avould  be  his  little  cousin  soon,  he  hoped. 
With  this  thought  he  dismissed  the  subject,  and  the  image 
of  Katharine  glided  into  that  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

But  she — the  young  creature  whom  he  left  behind  — 
stood  there,  absorbed  in  a  trance  of  delirious  rapture. 
She  saw  nothing — felt  nothing — but  the  vanished  face, 
and  the  touch  that  lingered  on  her  lips  and  eyelids.  It 
seemed  as  if  with  that  kiss  a  new  soul — his  soul— had 
passed  into  her  own,  giving  it  a  second  life.  She  awoke 
as  if  in  another  world,  feeling  her  whole  being  changed 
and  sublimated.  With  her,  every  thing  in  existence  now 
tended  toward  one  thought,  one  desire,  one  passionate  and 
yet  solemn  prayer — that  she  might  one  day  be  worthy  to 
lay  down  her  life,  her  love,  her  very  soul  at  the  feet  of 
Paul  Lynedon. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  marriage  bells, 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock. 

Tennyson. 

There  is,  in  one  of  the  counties  between  Devon  and 
Northumberland,  a  certain  cathedral  city,  the  name  of 
which  I  do  not  intend  to  reveal.     It  is,  or  was  until  very 


86  THE    OGILVIES. 

lately,  one  of  the  few  remaining  strongholds  of  High- 
Churchism  and  Conservatism,  political  and  moral.  In  old- 
en days  it  almost  sacrificed  its  existence  as  a  city  for  the 
cause  of  King  Charles  the  Martyr,  and  ever  since  has  kept 
true  to  its  2^i"inciples,  or  at  least  to  that  modification  of 
them  Avhich  the  exigencies  of  modern  times  required. 
And  the  "  loyal  and  ancient"  town — which  dignifies  itself 
by  the  name  of  city,  though  a  twenty  minutes'  walk  would 
bring  you  from  one  extremity  to  the  other — is  fully  alive 
to  the  consciousness  of  its  own  deservings.  It  is  a  very 
colony  of  Levitcs,  who,  devoted  to  the  temple-service,  shut 
out  from  their  precincts  any  unholy  thing.  But  this  un- 
holiness  is  an  epithet  of  their  own  afiixing,  not  Heaven's. 
It  means  not  merely  what  is  irreligious,  but  what  is  un- 
genteel,  unaristocratic,  un-Conservative. 

Yet  there  is  much  that  is  good  about  the  place  and  its  in- 
habitants. The  latter  may  well  be  proud  of  their  ancient 
and  beautiful  city — beautiful  not  so  much  in  itself  as  for 
its  situation.  It  lies  in  the  midst  of  a  fertile  and  graceful- 
ly undulated  region,  and  consists  of  a  cluster  of  artistically 
iri'cgular  and  deliciously  old-fishioned  streets,  of  which  the 
nucleus  is  the  cathedral.  Tins  rises  aloft  with  its  three 
airy  sjiires,  so  light,  so  delicately  traced,  that  they  have 
been  christened  the  Ladies  of  the  Vale.  Yon  may  see 
them  for  miles  and  miles  looking  almost  like  a  fairy  build- 
ing against  the  sky.  The  city  has  an  air  of  repose,  an  old- 
world  look,  which  becomes  it  well.  No  railway  has  yet 
disturbed  the  sacred  peace  of  its  antiquity,  and  here  and 
there  yon  may  see  grass  growing  in  its  quiet  streets,  over 
which  you  would  no  more  think  of  thundering  in  a  modern 
equipage  than  of  driving  a  coach-and-four  across  the  graves 
of  your  ancestors. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  that  of  sleepiness 
and  antique  propriety.  The  people  do  every  thing,  as 
Boniface  says,  "soberly."  They  have  grave  dinner-parties 
once  or  twice  in  the  year ;  a  public  ball  as  solemn  as  a  fu- 
neral ;  a  concert  now  and  then,  very  select  and  proper;  and 
so  society  moves  on  in  a  circle  of  polite  regularities.     The 


THE    OGILVIES.  87 

resident  bishop  is  the  sun  of  the  system,  around  which 
deans,  sub-deans,  choral  vicars,  and  clerical  functionaries 
of  all  sorts  revolve  in  successive  orbits  with  their  separate 
satellites.  One  cliaracter,  one  tone  of  feeling-  pervades  ev- 
ery body.     L is  a  city  of  serene  old  age.     Nobody 

seems  young  there — not  even  the  little  singing-boys. 

But  the  sanctum  sanctorum,  the  penetralia  of  the  city,  is 
a  small  region  surrounding  the  cathedral, entitled  the  Close. 
Here  abide  relics  of  ancient  sanctity,  Avidows  of  departed 
deans,  maiden  descendants  of  officials  wlio  probably  chant- 
ed anthems  on  the  accession  of  George  III.  or  on  the  down- 
fall of  the  last  Pretender.  Here,  too,  is  the  residence  of 
many  cathedral  functionaries,  who  pass  their  lives  Avithin 
the  precincts  of  the  sanctuary.  These  dwellings  have  im- 
bibed the  clerical  and  dignified  solemnity  due  to  their 
neighborhood.  It  seems  always  Sunday  in  the  Close;  and 
the  child  who  should  venture  to  bowl  a  hoop  along  its  still 
pavement,  or  play  at  marbles  on  its  door-steps,  would  be 
more  daring  than  ever  was  infant  within  the  verge  of  the 
city  of  L . 

In  this  spot  was  Mrs.  Breynton's  residence.  But  it  look- 
ed down  with  superior  dignity  upon  its  neighbors  in  the 
Close,  inasmuch  as  it  was  a  detached  mansion,  inclosed  by 
high  walls,  gardens,  and  massive  gates.  It  had  once  been 
the  bishop's  palace,  and  was  a  beautiful  relic  of  the  stately 
magnificence  of  old.  Large  and  lofty  rooms,  oak-j^aneled 
and  supported  by  pillars — noble  staircases — recesses  where 
proscribed  traitors  might  have  hid — gloomy  bedcliambers 
with  spectral  furniture,  meet  for  the  visitation  of  legions 
of  ghosts— dark  passages,  where  you  might  shiver  at  the 
echo  of  your  own  footsteps — such  were  the  internal  a])pear- 
ances  of  the  house.  Every  thing  was  solemn,  still,  age- 
stricken. 

But  without,  one  seemed  to  pass  at  once  from  the  frigid- 
ity of  age  to  the  light,  gladness,  and  freslmess  of  youth. 
The  lovely  garden  was  redolent  of  sweet  odors,  alive  with 
birds,  studded  with  velvety  grass-plots  of  the  brightest 
green  interwound  by  shady  alleys,  with  here  and  there 


88  THE    OGILVIES. 

trees  which  hid  their  aged  houghs  in  a  mantel  of  leaves 
and  flowers,  so  that  one  never  thought  how  they  and  the 
gray  pile  which  they  neighbored  had  come  into  existence 
togetlier.  It  Avas  like  the  contrast  between  a  hnmaji  mind 
which  the  world  teaches  and  builds  on  its  own  fading  mod- 
el, and  the  soul  of  God's  making  and  nourishing  which  lives 
in  His  sunshine  and  His  dews,  fresh  and  pure,  never  grows 
old,  and  bears  flowers  to  the  last. 

There,  in  that  still  garden,  you  might  sit  for  hours,  and 
hear  no  world-sounds  to  break  its  quiet  except  the  chimes 
of  the  cathedral  clock  drowsily  ringing  out  the  hours. 
Now  and  tlien,  at  service-time,  there  would  come  a  faint 
murmur  of  chanting,  uniting  the  visible  form  of  holy  serv- 
ice with  Nature's  eternal  praises  and  prayers,  and  so  blend- 
ing the  spiritual  and  the  tangible,  the  symbol  and  the  ex- 
pression, in  a  pleasant  harmony.  Dear,  beautiful  garden  ! 
No  dream  of  fiction,  but  a  little  Eden  of  memory — let  us 
rest  a  while  in  thy  lovely  shades  before  we  people  them 
with  the  denizens  of  this  our  self-created  world.  Oh,  pleas- 
ant garden  !  let  us  go  back  in  spirit  to  the  past,  and  lie 
down  on  the  green  sloping  bank  under  the  magnificent  old 
tree  with  its  cloud  of  white  blossoms  (no  poet-sung  haw- 
thorn, but  only  a  double  cherry) — let  us  stroll  along  the 
teri-ace-walk,  and  lean  against  the  thick  low  wall,  looking 
down  upon  what  was  once  the  cathedral  moat,  but  is  now 
a  sloping  dell  all  trailed  over  Avith  blackberries — let  us 
watch  the  sunlit  spires  of  the  old  cathedral  in  a  quiet 
dreaminess  that  almost  shuts  out  thought !  And,  while 
resting  under  the  shadow  of  this  dream,  its  memorial  pict- 
ures siiall  be  made  life-like  to  us  by  the  accompaniment  of 
solemn  music,  such  as  this  : 

Oh  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises, 
Oh  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ; 

Oh  delved  gold — the  waller's  heap : 
Oh  strife — oh  tears  that  o'er  it  fall, 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  giveth  His  heloved  sleep. 


THE    OGILVIES  89 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Of  Mhat  quality  was  your  love,  then  ? 

Like  a  fiiir  house  built  upon  another  man's  ground,  so  that  I  have  lost 
my  edifice  by  mistaking  the  place  where  I  erected  it. — Shakspeake. 

How  ill  doth  he  deser\e  a  lover's  name 
Whose  pale  weak  flame 

Can  not  retain 
His  heart  in  spite  of  absence  or  disdain, 
But  does  at  once,  like  paper  set  on  fire, 
Burn,  and  expire. — Cakew. 

It  was  scarcely  jDossible  to  imagine  a  greater  contrast 
than  that  between  Mrs.  Breynton  and  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  It 
was  not  the  contrast  of  yonth  and  age,  or  Ijcautj'  and  ugli- 
ness; for  the  lady  of  the  palace  was  certainly  not  very  old, 
and  might  once  have  been  decidedly  handsome.  But  there 
was  a  line-and-plunimet  regularity,  an  angular  preciseness, 
in  Mrs.  Breynton's  mind  and  person,  that  was  altogether 
opposed  to  Hogarth's  curve  of  "beauty  and  grace."  She 
was  like  a  correct  mathematical  figure  altogether  made  up 
of  right  lines.  A  bishop's  niece,  a  canon's  daughter,  and  a 
dean's  widow,  she  had  lived  all  her  life  under  the  shadow 
of  the  cathedral  walls.  It  Avas  her  vrorld — she  could  im- 
agine no  greater;  and  in  it  she  had  passed  a  life  serene, 
sedate,  unl)roken,  save  by  two  shocks — the  death  of  the 
dean,  and  an  event  yet  more  terrible,  her  only  brother's  re- 
linquishment of  the  Church  for  the  Army.  The  lirst  she 
recovered  in  time ;  the  second  she  atoned  for  by  bringing 
up  that  favorite  brother's  orphan  son  to  restore  the  credit 
of  the  family  through  the  induction  of  surplice  and  band. 

The  elder  lady  and  her  companion  sat  together  in  the 
breakfast-room.  It  was  the  only  apartment  in  the  house 
that  Avas  small  enough  to  be  comfortable,  and  this  shadow 
of  domestic  coziness  Avas  taken  away  by  one  half  of  it  being 
transformed  by  a  glass  partition-wall  into  a  conservatory. 


00  THE    OGILVIES. 

But  this  conservatory  was  unlike  most  others,  inasmuch  as 
it  liad  dead  brick  walls  and  higli  windows  tlirough  which 
little  liglit  could  penetrate,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  the  room 
had  been  made  into  a  vegetable  menagei-ie. 

Mrs.  Bre3Miton  always  made  a  rule  of  sitting  still  after 
l)reakfast  for  half  an  hour,  during  which  time  she  read  her 
letters,  decided  upon  the  day's  avocations,  and  knitted  one 
square  of  an  eternal  counterpane  that  seemed  likely  to  en- 
ter on  its  duties  for  the  first  time  as  the  shroud  of  its  cen- 
tenarian fabricator. 

"Eleanor,  my  dear!"  said  the  measured  tones  of  the 
Dean's  widow. 

Elennor  had  entered  tlie  menagerie  with  the  charitable 
intenti,)u  of  opening  the  window  to  give  air  to  its  occu- 
l^ants. 

"  My  dear  Eleanor  !"  repeated  in  a  tone  higher,  made  her 
turn  round  and  answer  the  call.  "I  merely  wished  to  re- 
mind you  that  we  never  open  the  conservatory  window 
until  Easter,  and  it  is  now  only  the  week  before  Lent." 

Eleanor  closed  the  window,  looking  compassionately  at 
the  poor  orange-trees,  which  could  drink  in  air  and  light 
only  by  rule  and  measure.  She  came  into  the  breakfast- 
room,  and  sat  watching  the  sunshine  that  struggled  in.  It 
rested  on  an  old  picture — the  only  one  in  the  room — a  por- 
trait of  a  rosy,  golden-haired  boy.  The  oi-iginal  was  the 
Canon  Francis  Wychnor,  whose  monument  stood  in  the 
cathedral  nave.     Could  he  have  ever  been  a  child? 

Mrs.  Breynton  knitted  another  row  in  silence,  and  then 
observed, 

"Eleanor,  my  reference  to  this  season  of  Lent  has  made 
me  remember  how  near  it  is  to  the  Ember  Weeks.  I  Avon- 
der  I  did  not  hear  from  Philip  to-day." 

Sudden  blushes  rarely  came  to  Eleanor's  cheek ;  her  feel- 
ings were  too  well-governed  and  calm.  But  now  she  felt 
glad  that  she  sat  in  the  sliade,  for  Mrs.  Breynton's  thoughts 
had  taken  the  same  direction  as  her  own. 

"Perhaps  he  will  write  to-morrow,"  was  the  very  ordi- 
nary reply  that  she  found  herself  able  to  make. 


THE    OGILVIES.  91 

"I  hope  so;  but  he  has  rarely  suffered  Tuesday  morn- 
ing to  pass  by;  and  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  me  to 
know  that  he  is  quite  prepared  for  taking  orders." 

"  This  year — so  soon  !" 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  He  Mas  three-and-twenty  last 
month — ^just  in  time.  I  have  already  spoken  to  the  Bishop 
about  the  cui'acy  of  Wearraouth;  and  old  3Ir.  Vernon,  the 
rector  of  that  place,  is  not  likely  in  course  of  nature  to  live 
more  than  two  or  three  years.  I  consider  that  there  are 
few  young  men  with  better  prospects  than  my  nephew  ; 
and  I  think  I  may  flatter  myself  on  having  been  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  instrumental  in  his  M-cll-being." 

"  Indeed,  he  owes  you  much  !  But  I  am  sure,  from  wlint 
I  know  of  Mr.  Wychnor,  that  your  kindness  will  be  requited 
with  interest." 

A  pleased  though  very  frigid  smile  bent  the  thin  lips  of 
the  Dean's  widow.  "I  am  quite  satisfied  that  Philip  will 
do  credit  to  his  family.  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  liim, 
except  perhaps  that  he  is  not  regular  enouglx  in  his  studies, 
and  has  a  ftincy  for  always  carrying  with  him  a  volume  or 
two  of  idle  poetry — not  quite  the  thing  for  a  young  clergy- 
man to  read.  But  he  will  get  over  that ;  and  if  he  con- 
ducts himself  well  in  his  curacy,  and  marries  to  please  me, 
as  I  have  little  doubt  he  will"  (here  Mrs.  Breynton  glanced 
approvingly  at  Eleanor's  gracefully-drooped  head),  "why, 
then, Philip  will  have  no  cause  to  regret  that  he  is  my  neph- 
ew. But  it  is  already  ten  o'clock,  and  I  have  to  speak  to 
the  gardener  about  transplanting  some  geraniums.  Elea- 
nor, will  you  be  kind  enough  to  ring  for  Davis  ?" 

Long  after  the  old  lady  had  attired  herself,  and  been  seen 
slowly  traversing  the  garden  walks,  Eleanor  sat  musing  on 
her  latter  words — "  If  Philip  marries  to  please  me."  It 
was  almost  the  first  time  she  had  ever  heard  the  Avord  mar- 
riage on  Mrs.  Breynton's  lips.  The  palace  had  always 
seemed  a  quiet,  innocent  paradise,  wherein  there  was  no 
mention  of  the  one  feeling  Avhich  in  society  is  often  diluted 
into  a  meaningless  and  contemptible  jest,  or  else  made  the 
cause  of  all  strife,  evil,  and  sorrow.     Eleanor  and  Philip, 


92  THE    OGILVIES. 

Kliut  up  together  like  two  young  birds  in  this  peaceful  Eden, 
had  glided  into  love,  without  any  one's  taking  apparent  no- 
tice of  the  fact,  and  almost  without  knowing  it  themselves. 
The  flower  had  sprung  up  in  their  hearts,  and  grown  leaf 
by  leaf,  bud  by  bud,  neither  could  tell  how.  No  doubts 
and  jealousies  from  the  world  outside  had  ever  come  be- 
tween them.  Their  perfect  love  was  perfect  trust — the 
deep  faith  between  tAVO  beings  who  feel  that  they  are 
formed  for  one  another,  and  are  united  to  the  heart's  core. 
They  never  talked  about  their  love.  Philip  made  no  dec- 
larations— Eleanor  asked  no  vows ;  and  when  they  parted 
for  the  short  visit  at  Summerwood,  there  was  no  formal 
farewell.  Only,  as  they  stood  at  the  hall  door,  Philip  press- 
ed her  hand  and  said, 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  Eleanor — my  Eleanor ! — remem- 
ber you  are  mine — dearest  to  me  of  all  the  world." 

Eleanor  believed  it,  and  felt  from  that  moment  that  she 
was  betrothed  to  him  in  heart  and  soul.  She  rested  in  the 
knowledge  ;  full  of  trust  in  him — in  his  true,  earnest,  noble 
nature.  She  had  not  thought  much  of  the  future  until 
Mrs.  Breynton's  words  awakened  a  restlessness  and  an  anx- 
ious lookincf-forward.  Eleanor  knew  Philip's  heart  better 
than  any  one,  and  she  foreboded  that  all  these  projects  for 
his  future  advantage  were  little  likely  to  be  seconded  by 
him.  She  sat  pondering  for  nearly  an  hour,  when  slie  was 
summoned  into  the  drawing-room  by  the  arrival  of  a  visitor. 

It  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  whom  she  expected. 

"Mr.  Lynedon,  this  is  indeed  a  surprise  !"  cried  Eleanor. 

There  was  a  slight  confusion  in  his  manner,  which  Avas 
very  soon  reflected  in  hers,  for  just  at  that  moment  Mrs. 
Breynton  entered.  The  extreme  frigidity  of  her  reception 
was  enough  to  produce  an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  any 
maiden  of  nineteen  who  has  to  introduce  a  strange  gentle- 
man— arrived,  ajDparently,  without  any  object  but  that  of 
seeing  herself 

"Mrs.  Breynton,  this  is  Mr.  Lynedon,  a  friend  of  my  un- 
cle Ogilvie's,  Avho  was  staying  at  Summerwood.  I  believe 
I  spoke  of  him." 


THE    OGILVIES.  93 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  recollection  of  the  fact,  my 
dear ;  but  any  friend  of  yours  or  of  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie's  is 

welcome  to  my  house.     Fray  be  seated,  Mr. .     Excuse 

me,  Eleanor,  but  I  did  not  catch  the  gentleman's  name." 

"  Lynedon,"  answered  Paul,  somewhat  disconcerted  by 
the  cold,  penetrating  gaze  of  Mrs.  Breynton.  However,  he 
made  an  effort  and  recovered  his  self-command.  "  I  bear 
credentials  from  Summerwood  which  I  hope  will  atone  for 
tliis  intrusion — a  few  books  which  Miss  Ogilvie  was  send- 
ing to  her  cousin.  Happening  to  propose  a  journey  which 
would  lead  me  through  your  city,!  volunteered  to  deliver 
them.  Perhaps  this  offer  was  nardly  disinterested,  as  I 
was  glad  of  any  excuse  to  stay  and  see  your  beautiful  ca- 
thedral." 

Mrs.  Breynton  began  to  thaw.  To  praise  "our  cathe- 
dral," and  manifest  interest  therein,  was  a  certain  road  to 
her  favor.  From  the  fcAV  words  which  she  answered,  Paul 
Lynedon  was  sharp-sighted  enough  to  discover  this,  and  he 
followed  up  his  game  Avith  great  patience  and  ingem^ity. 
While  Eleanor  examined  the  books  he  brought,  he  talked 
the  Dean's  lady  into  the  best  of  humors.  She  took  him  to 
the  window  which  looked  on  the  cathedral  yard — explain- 
ed its  architecture  from  top  to  bottom — and  finally,  delight- 
ed with  the  interest  that  he  evinced  and  with  his  evident 
antiquarian  lore — Paul  was  the  cleverest  of  tacticians  in 
displaying  every  whit  of  his  knowledge — she  invited  her 
unexpected  guest  to  stay  to  luncheon. 

"Then,  Eleanor,  my  dear,  we  can  afterward  show  the  ca- 
thedral to  Mr.  Lynedon,  since  he  seems  to  admire  it  so 
much.  I  mention  this,  Mr.  Lynedon,  because  under  my  es- 
cort you  will  be  able  to  see  the  Ladye  Chapel,  the  vaults, 
and  other  interesting  parts,  where  visitors  are  not  admitted 
in  general ;  but  I,  as  connected  with  the  cathedral — " 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  madam ;  how  fortunate  that  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  from  one  so  important  as 
yourself,"  said  Paul  Lynedon,  trying  not  to  smile  at  the 
clerical  pride  of  this  relative  of  so  many  departed  dignita- 
ries.    His  tendency  for  delicately  polite  satire  became  al- 

E 


94  THE    OGILVIES. 

most  irrepressible,  until  in  the  midst  of  his  pretended  def- 
erence he  caught  Eleanor's  eyes  fixed  on  him.  The  re- 
proach thus  given  he  felt,  and  stopped  immediately. 

Excited  by  her  presence,  Paul's  longing  to  unfold  his 
love  and  receive  its  requital  grew  stronger  than  ever.  lie 
tried  every  expedient  that  courtesy  could  either  sanction 
or  conceal  in  order  to  get  the  old  lady  out  of  the  room. 
But  Mrs.  Breynton  had  boen  brought  up  in  the  old-world 
school  of  proprieties,  and  had  no  idea  of  leaving  a  young 
lady  and  gentleman  alone  together  for  five  minutes  unless 
they  were  plighted  lovers,  80,  during  tAvo  interminable 
hours,  Paul  had  not  an  opportunity  of  exchanging  one  word 
with  Eleanor  except  on  the  most  trivial  subjects,  and  even 
then  Mrs.  Breynton's  quick  black  eyes  followed  him  with 
a  hawk-liko  pertinacity  that  was  any  thing  but  pleasant. 

Paul  grew  quite  nervous.     "  It  Avill  come  to  a  letter  after 
all,  and  I  hate  the  idea  of  a  proposal  in  ink.     Confound  that 
stupid  old  woman  !"  thought  he,  while  the  impetuosity  0/ 
his  character  foamed  and  boiled  under  the  check  he  was 
forced  to  put  upon  it. 

At  last  Mrs.  Breynton  proposed  to  visit  the  cathedral. 

"  Pray,  do  not  let  me  encroach  upon  you  too  much,"  said 
Paul ;  "  the  verger  will  show  me — or  if  Miss  Ogilvie  would 
favor  me  so  far." 

His  eyes  turned  toward  Eleanor — so  did  Mrs.  Breynton's; 
but  there  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  love-mystery  suggested 
in  that  calm,  mild  face. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  act  as 
your  guide,  only  Mrs.  Breynton  knows  so  much  more  than 
I  do  about  these  curious  old  monuments.  However,  we 
will  both  go  with  you." 

"  Certainly,  Eleanor,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Breynton,  with  an 
air  of  complete  reassurance ;  while  Paul  forced  his  hand  so 
precipitately  into  his  glove  that  he  tore  it  completely  in 
two.  But,  as  if  the  favoring  stars  looked  with  pity  on  the 
vexed  lover,  it  so  chanced  that  the  Bishop's  lady  drove  up 
to  the  gates  just  as  the  three  were  setting  out.  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton was  forced  to  return,  and  Paul  found  himself  alone  with 
Eleanor, 


THE    OGILVIES.  95 

Who  ever  wooed 
As  in  his  boyish  hope  he  would  have  done? 

asks  the  poet — and  poets  are  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the 
only  truth-speakers.  Paul  Lynedon  suddenly  discovered 
that  he  had  not  a  word  to  say.  Eleanor — quiet,  composed, 
unconscious  Eleanor — had  all  the  talk  to  herself.  She  ex- 
erted her  memory  to  the  utmost  in  order  to  explain  every 
thinof.  Paul  listened  assentino-ly  —  walked  beside  her — • 
looked  Avhere  she  directed — but  whether  she  were  show- 
ing him  Newgate  or  Westminster  Abbey,  it  would  have 
been  quite  impossible  for  him  to  tell.  When  they  came 
out,  a  sudden  fear  urged  him  to  make  the  most  of  the  time. 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  in  yet.  I  should  like  to  see  the  view 
from  the  terrace  you  spoke  of,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 

They  walked  to  the  garden  terrace. 

"I  really  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  being  Katharine's 
messenger;  it  was  so  kind  and  thoughtful  of  her  to  make 
me  this  present — and  to  choose  such  nice  books,  too,"  ob- 
served Eleanor. 

Paul  felt  that  he  must  "  do  or  die."  He  stood  still  in  his 
walk,  took  her  hand,  and  said,  in  a  deep,  low  whisper, 

"  Miss  Ogilvie,  you  are  mistaken ;  Katharine  never  sent 
those  books — it  was  but  my  excuse  for  seeing  you.  I  can 
not  live  any  longer  without  saying  '  Eleanor,  I  love  you  !' 
Why  do  you  start — Avhy  do  you  turn  away  ?  Eleanor,  you 
must  hear  me — you  must  answer  me." 

She  could  not ;  indeed,  he  hardly  allowed  her  time,  but 
went  on  rapidly, 

"  You  were  so  kind,  so  gentle,  when  we  were  at  Sum- 
merwood,  I  thought  you  might  love  me,  or  would  let  me 
teach  you  to  do  so  in  time.  Eleanor,  is  it  so  ?  tell  me ;  or, 
have  I  deceived  myself?" 

Her  reply  was  the  one  word — "  Yes  !" 

Paul  Lynedon  did  not  answer.  He  leaned  against  the 
wall,  and  covered  his  face.  Eleanor,  startled  and  pained, 
was  also  silent.  They  stood  thus  for  some  minutes.  At 
last  she  said,  with  some  agitation, 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  had  no  idea  of  this.  Mr.  Lynedon, 
you  do  not  think  I  deceived  you  ?" 


96  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  No,  no — it  was  my  own  madness,"  muttered  Paul ;  "  the 
fool  I  was,  to  think  I  had  read  a  Avoman's  heart !  Well !  it 
will  be  a  lesson  to  me.  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  trust  yoii  will  par- 
don me,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  savored  more  of  wounded 
pride  than  of  heart-broken  love. 

"  Pardon  you  !  I  owe  you  pardon,  if  by  any  means  I 
Lave  made  you  unhappy.  But  I  do  not  think  I  shall — at 
least  not  for  long.  Forgive  me.  I  like  and  esteem  you 
very  mueh.     I  do  indeed." 

That  soft  voice  touched  Paul's  heart,  even  amid  the  an- 
gry bitterness  that  was  rising  there. 

"  For  heaven's  sake.  Miss  Ogilvie,  tell  me  why  you  reject 
me  !  Is  it  simply  because  I  have  been  so  hasty  that  I  have 
not  given  you  time  to  love  me  ?  or,  do  you  love  another  ?" 

A  deep  crimson  rose  to  Eleanor's  very  brow.  Paul  saw 
the  blush,  and  understood  it.  His  pride  took  arms  against 
his  lingering  love,  and  drove  it  from  the  field. 

"  You  need  not  speak — I  am  answered.  Believe  me,  I 
wish  to  intrude  on  no  man's  privileges.  Let  me  hope  that 
you  will  forget  this  unfortunate  betrayal  of  feelings  which 
you  do  not  return,  and  accept  my  best  wishes  for  your  hap- 
piness. Look !  I  see  Mrs.  Breynton  at  the  window ;  shall 
we  retrace  our  steps  ?  I  wish  to  heaven  it  could  be  done 
in  more  ways  than  one,"  added  the  rejected  lover  in  a  bit- 
ter "  aside,"  which  Eleanor's  agitation  prevented  her  from 
hearing.  If  she  had,  it  might  have  saved  her  gentle  heart 
from  many  a  painful  thrill  of  womanly  pity,  and  shown  her 
how  rootless  and  how  easily  extinguished  is  the  love  that 
springs  up  suddenly  in  the  breast  of  a  proud  and  impetu- 
ous man,  and  with  the  thwarting  of  its  own  selfish  impulse 
as  quickly  dies  away.  No  man  who  loves  worthily,  how- 
ever hopelessly,  will  mingle  bitterness  and  anger  with  his 
sorrow,  or  say  to  the  sunbeams  under  whose  brightness  he 
has  walked  for  a  time,  "  I  Avould  ye  had  never  shone  !" 

Eleanor  and  Lynedon  re-entered  the  house  in  silence. 
Mrs.  Breynton  looked  at  them  with  a  politely-qualified  cu- 
riosity ;  but  the  answer  to  her  penetrating  inquiry  appeai'ed 
sufliciently  satisfiictory,  for  she  took  no  notice  of  the  dis- 


THE    OGILVIES.  97 

covery.  And  the  reverend  and  reverenced  shadow  of  the 
Bishopess  still  rested  on  the  good  lady,  Avho  felt  herself 
bound  to  reflect  upon  all  around  the  high  dignity  and  hon- 
or of  this  visit,  shutting  out  every  minor  considei'ation. 

"I  shall  he  always  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  she 
said,  replying  to  her  guest's  hurried  adieu  with  a  stately 
politeness ;  "  I  regret  that  my  nephew,  Mr.  Wychnor,  is 
not  here,  but  we  expect  him  shortly." 

Paul  glanced  at  Eleanor.  In  the  drooped  head — in  the 
bright  rosy  dj^e  which  sufi:used  the  very  throat — he  read 
the  secret  of  his  rejection.  He  turned  hastily  away,  and 
his  hurried  strides  resounded  heavily  down  the  pavement 
of  the  Close.  There  was  a  little  child  playing  in  his  path 
— he  drove  the  frightened  boy  aside  with  a  fiery  glance 
and  a  command  that  sounded  almost  like  an  execration. 
Spirit  of  true  and  pure  Love — even  though  sorrow-veiled 
— couldst  thou  have  been  in  his  soul  and  suftered  this  ? 

"Well!  he  is  the  strangest  young  man  I  ever  knew, 
this  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon,"  was  Mrs.  Breynton's  comment  as 
she  watched  him  from  the  window  of  the  palace.  "  Really, 
Eleanor — " 

But  Eleanor  had  left  the  room  to  relieve  her  troubled 
heart  with  a  gush  of  pent-up  tears.  This  sudden  knowl- 
edge of  another's  love  had  unveiled  to  her  more  complete- 
ly the  depths  of  her  own,  and  shown  her  how  her  whole 
soul  was  bound  up  in  Philip  Wychnor.  And  no  matter  in 
how  happy  and  hopeful  a  light  this  consciousness  may 
come,  there  is  always  something  solemn — almost  fearful— 
to  a  Avoman  who  thus  stands,  as  it  were,  on  the  brink  of  a 
life-destiny,  feeling  that  in  the  future  nothing  can  be  per- 
fectly sure  or  clear  but  the  faithful  love  in  her  own  heart. 
Yet  that  love  is  her  fairest  omen — her  safest  anchor — her 
chiefest  strength,  except  in  Heaven  ! 

And  while  Eleanor  lingered  alone,  in  thoughtful  musings 
that  were  almost  prayers,  and  while  Paul  Lynedon  dashed 
forward  on  his  way  in  angry  sorrow,  determined  to  travel 
abroad,  and  so  crush  out  of  his  heart  every  memory  of  his 
slighted  love,  Mrs.  Breynton,  good,  easy  soul,  sat  dozing 


98  THE    OGILVIES. 

over  her  netting,  and  thinking  how  very  condescending 
was  the  new  Bishop's  lady — Avhen  the  first  invitation  to 
dinner  would  arrive — and  whether  she  should  wear  the 
black  velvet  or  the  Irish  poplin. 

Oh,  youth  !  with  thy  fiery  lieart — whicli,  after  all,  is  near- 
est to  Heaven  in  the  nobleness  that  thrills  through  its 
wildest  beatings — canst  thou  ever  freeze  into  such  a  dead, 
dull  calm  as  this? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  ask  no  vengeance  from  tlie  powers  above ; 
All  I  implore  is,  never  more  to  love  : 
Let  me  tliis  fondness  from  my  bosom  tear, 
Let  me  forget  that  e'er  I  thought  her  fair. 

Lyttelton. 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streames, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deepe  are  dumb ; 

So,  wlien  aflfectVons  yield  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 

Ka  LEIGH. 

Ltnedon  str^xle  through  the  quiet  grass-grown  streets 

of  L ,  liis  feet  winged  by  the  imj^etuous  anger  of  a 

thwarted  avjU.  Despite  the  impulse  of  this  sudden  pas- 
sion, it  had  cost  him  considerable  effort  before  the  gay  and 
courted  man  of  the  world  could  resolve  to  give  up  his  lib- 
erty, and  immolate  himself  on  the  matrimonial  shrine  for 
any  woman  soever.  And  now  the  heroic  resolution  was 
wholly  vain — the  momentous  sacrifice  was  rejected  as  an 
unvalued  oifering.  The  first  absolute  proposal  of  marriage 
with  which  Paul  Lynedon  had  ever  honored  the  sex  had 
been  refused  !  And  by  whom  ?  By  a  simple  country  girl, 
who  had,  he  now  thought,  neither  beauty  nor  fascinations 
of  manner,  nor — -fortune. 

He  remembered  that  last  circumstance  now,  though,  to 
do  Paul  justice,  he  had  not  considered  it  before — for  he 
was  not  a  mercenary  man,  Evem  while  it  stung  his  pride, 
it  brought  a  faint  consolation  to  his  sense  of  worldly  Avis- 


THE  oeiLViES.  99 

dom.  It  had  certainly  saved  him  from  perpetrating  a 
most  improvident  marriage.  He  "  laid  the  flattering  imc- 
tion  to  his  soul,"  but  it  proved  only  a  temporary  balm ; 
the  sting  still  remained — wounded  pride — selfish,  angry 
sorrow,  like  that  of  a  child  over  a  lost  toy — and  perhaps  a 
deeper,  purer  feeling,  which  regretted  the  vanished  spell 
of  that  gentle  woman's  nature,  under  which  every  better 
impulse  of  his  own  had  been  reawakened.  That  which  he 
had  felt  was  not  the  real  love,  the  one  sole  love  of  life ;  but 
no  man  could  have  entered  even  within  the  shadow  of  Ele- 
anor Ogilvie's  influence  without  some  true,  deep  chords  be- 
ins'  sounded  in  his  heart — and  from  their  silence  came  the 
pain,  the  only  sincere  and  virtuous  pain,  which  Paul  Lyne- 
don  experienced.  To  lull  it,  he  walked  for  miles  across  the 
country,  striving  by  physical  exercise  to  deaden  the  ex- 
citement of  his  mind. 

It  was  a  lovely  region  through  which  he  passed — all 
woodland  or  pasture-grounds — but  the  young  man  saw 
nothing.  Nature — pure,  unalloyed  nature,  w'as  rai'ely  his 
delight :  his  perceptions,  though  refined,  were  not  simple 
enough  to  relish  such  pleasures.  Now,  he  only  felt  that 
the  roads  were  insuflerably  muddy  and  the  fields  hatefully 
quiet.  He  did  not  marvel  at  the  taste  of  a  woman  brought 
up  in  such  scenes ;  he  only  cursed  his  own  folly  for  ever 
having  seen  any  charm  in  rural  innocence.  He  would  es- 
chew such  sentimentality  in  future ;  he  would  go  back  to 
the  gay,  care-drowning  world — plunge  in  London  life — or, 
what  seemed  far  better,  travel  abroad  once  more. 

Under  this  impulse  he  sprang  on  a  coach  that  was  then 
passing,  caring  little  whither  it  bore  him,  so  that  it  was  far 
away  from  L . 

Lynedon  intrenched  himself  in  proud  reserve  beside  the 
coachman,  and  scarcely  answered,  even  in  monosyllables, 
when  this  individual — a  character  in  his  way — civilly  point- 
ed out  many  a  lovely  pastoral  view,  among  which,  from 
every  point,  the  "Ladies  of  the  Vale"  could  be  seen  airily 
towering  in  the  clear  sky.  With  melancholy  emphasis  did 
the  foreboding  hero  of  the  whip  point  out  the  line  where 


100  THE    OGILYIES. 

the  threatened  railway  was  to  traverse  this  beautiful  chani' 
paign,  and  bring  at  last  the  evil  spirit  of  reform  and  prog' 
ress  into  the  time-honored  sanctity  of  the  cathedral  town. 
But  Lynedon  hated  the  very  name  of  the  place.  All  that 
he  noticed  in  his  neighbor's  conversation  was  the  atrocious 

S shire  accent ;  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 

English  peasantry  were  the  rudest  in  the  world. 

At  last,  Paul's  mind  began  to  settle  into  a  few  straight- 
forward resolves  with  regard  to  his  future  proceedings. 
The  coach  was  bearing  him  toward  London ;  but  could  he 
go  there,  within  reach  of  the  sneers  of  the  already  suspect- 
ing Mrs.  Lancaster?  No ;  he  would  pretend  urgent  aflairs, 
and  rush  abroad  ;  and,  to  do  this,  he  must  first  go  home. 

Home  !  It  was  a  rare  woi-d  in  Paul  Lynedon's  vocabu- 
lary. Very  few  of  his  friends  knew  of  its  existence  at  all ; 
and  he  never  sought  to  enlighten  their  ignorance,  for,  in 
fact,  he  was  considerably  ashamed  of  the  place. 

The  penultimate  descendant  of  the  time-honored  Lyne- 
don race  had  sought  to  redeem  his  fortunes  by  trade. 
Paul's  father  had  been  a  cotton-manufacturer.  The  mod- 
erate fortune  which  now  enabled  the  son  to  take  his  stand 
in  that  sphere  to  which  his  birth  entitled  him  had  sprung 
from  the  red-brick  mill,  with  its  black  windows,  its  ever- 
dinning  wheels.  This  grim  phantom  had  been  the  horror 
of  Paul  Lynedon's  youth:  it  haunted  him  even  yet.  Per- 
haps, had  his  better  self  gained  free  play,  he  would  not 
have  so  wholly  sought  to  stifle  the  remembrance  of  the 
spot  Avhere,  years  before,  the  aristocratic  father,  equally 
proud,  but  yet  noble  in  his  pride,  had  put  his  hand  to  the 
work,  and  never  once  looked  back  until  he  had  replaced 
ancestral  wealth  by  the  wealth  of  industry.  Paul's  con- 
science, and  his  appreciative  reA^erence  for  virtue,  acknowl- 
edged all  this,  but  he  had  not  strength  of  mind  to  brave 
the  world  and  say  so. 

Therefore,  while  he  would  not  part  with  the  simple 
dwelling  where  his  gray-haired  father  and  his  fair  young 
mother  had  both  died,  and  where  his  sister  and  himself  had 
spent  their  orphaned  childhood,  still  Lynedon  rarely  ah 


THE    OGILVIES.  101 

luded  to  his  "home,"  and  scarcely  ever  visited  it.  Tlio 
distant  sound  of  the  horrible  cotton-mill,  now  long  since 
passed  into  other  hands,  almost  drove  him  wild  yet.  No 
head  with  brains  could  endure  the  din.  On  his  rare  visits, 
he  usually  made  a  circuit  of  half  a  mile  to  avoid  it.  He 
did  so  now,  notwithstanding  the  weariness  caused  by  his 
long  night-journey.  At  last,  in  the  sunshine  of  early  morn- 
ing, he  stood  by  his  own  door. 

It  liad  originally  been  a  straight-staring,  plain-fronted 
house,  of  the  eternal  red  brick  peculiar  to  the  manufactur- 
ing districts.  But  the  builder's  want  of  taste  was  conceuh 
ed  by  the  late  owner's  possession  of  that  graceful  quality. 
Over  the  staring  front  were  trained  ivy,  clematis,  and  vine, 
converting  it  into  a  very  bower  of  greenery  ;  and  amid  the 
formal  garden  had  been  planted  quick-growing  lime-trees, 
that  now  formed  "pleached  alleys"  wherein  even  poets  or 
lovers — the  true  honey-bees  of  all  life's  pleasure-flowers — ■ 
might  delight  to  walk. 

As  Paul  Lynedon  passed  hastily  through  these,  he 
thought  for  a  moment  how,  when  the  trees  were  growing, 
he  and  his  little  sister  had  used  to  play  at  hide-and-seek 
among  them.  He  wished  that  the  bright,  curly-tressed 
head  had  been  peeping  out  from  among  the  branches,  and 
smiling  a  womanly,  sisterly  welcome  irom  the  barred  and 
lonely  doorway.  The  first  time  for  many  months,  he  re- 
membered a  little  green  mound  beside  the  stately  bury- 
ing-place  of  the  Lynedons — far  away.  Paul  sighed,  and 
thought  that  he  might  have  been  a  better  and  a  happier 
man  if  poor  little  Alice  had  lived  to  be  a  woman. 

He  roused  his  old  housekeeper;  but  when  she  came,  at 
the  first  look  of  her  sour,  grumbling  face,  he  hastily  dismiss- 
ed lier.  In  the  long-deserted  house  was  neither  chamber 
nor  bed  prepared  ;  so  he  stretched  himself  on  a  sofa,  and 
tried  to  Ibrget  past,  present,  and  future  in  a  most  welcome 
slumber. 

This  deep  sleep  lasted  for  several  hours.  Lynedon  awoke 
with  the  afternoon  sun  staring  right  into  his  face,  together 
with  a  couple  of  human  optics  belonging  to  a  young  man 

E2 


102  THE    OGILVIES. 

who  sat  neai"  him  and  raaintained  an  equally  pertinacious 
gaze.  This  individual  held,  likewise,  his  evidently  medical 
fingers  on  the  sleeper's  wrist,  while  from  his  other  hand 
dangled  the  orthodox  M.D.'s  Avatch.  It  fell  to  the  ground 
when  Paul  started  up  with  an  energy  very  unlike  a  pa- 
tient's. 

"My  good  friend — my  dear  Lyncdon — well,  I  thought 
there  could  he  nothing  much  the  matter  with  you." 

"  Who  imagined  tliere  was  ?" 

"  Why,  that  good  old  soul  your  housekeeper,  who  said 
you  slept  so  heavily  at  first,  and  then  began  to  talk  so  wild- 
ly, she  was  sure  you  were  mad,  or  had  taken  poison,  and  so 
fetched  me." 

"  Pshaw !  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  doctor," 
said  Paul,  rousing  himself,  and  trying  to  shake  off  the  rush 
of  painful  and  mortifying  thoughts  that  came  Avith  his 
awaking.  He  could  not  do  this  altogether;  and  it  was 
with  considerable  effort  that  he  forced  his  features  into  a 
polite  smile  while  he  listened  to  the  talk  of  his  old  college 
chum,  who,  on  giving  up  the  sermon  for  the  recipe,  had 
been  considerably  indebted  to  Lynedon's  kindness  for  a 
start  in  life. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  are  coming  to  settle  among  us,  or 
at  least  to  stay  a  long  time,"  said  Dr.  Saville. 

Paul's  face  darkened.  "  No ;  I  shall  be  off  in  a  day  or 
two  for  the  Continent.  I  don't  care  when  I  come  back.  I 
hate  England." 

"  Really — how  very  odd  !  what  can  be  the  reason  ?"  was 
the  simple  remark  of  the  most  commonplace  of  country 
doctors. 

"  Never  mind,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Paul,  rather  sharp- 
ly. "Don't  talk  about  myself;  I  am  sick  of  the  subject. 
Speak  about  any  other  affairs — your  own,  for  instance; 
doubtless  far  more  interesting  to  both  parties." 

"  Thank  you,  Lynedon,  you  are  very  kind  ;"  and  the 
chattering,  weak-minded,  but  good-natured  physician  held 
forth  for  a  long  time  on  the  inane  topics  current  in  the 
neio-hborhood.     At  last  he  glided  on  to  his  own  peculiar 


THE    OGILYIES.  lOo 

affairs,  and,  after  a  while,  gathered  courage  to  convey  to 
his  old  friend  and  patron  the  important  information  that 
he  was  about  to  marry. 

"If  you  do  you  are  a  confounded  fool,"  cried  Lynedon, 
with  an  energy  that  made  the  little  doctor  tremble  on  his 
chair,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Saville,"  he  added,  trying  to 
laugh  off  the  matter;  "you  don't  know  what  women  are 
-■ — not  so  well  as  friend  Maro.     Remember, 

Varium  et  mutabile  semper 
Foemina. 

The  old  fellow  Avas  not  far  wrong,  eh '?  They  are  all  alike." 
"  Except  my  Lizzie  !  oh,  no  !  I'm  quite  sure  of  Lizzie  ;" 
and  he  began  to  dilate  contentedly  on  a  future  rendered 
certain  by  its  humble  hopes  and  limited  desires.  Paul  was 
touched;  it  formed  such  a  contrast  to  his  selfish  sorrow 
and  mortified  pride.  He  listened  with  a  feeling  very  like 
envy  to  the  bridegroom-expectant's  account  of  his  already 
furnished  house,  his  neat  garden — Lizzie  liked  flowers — his 
little  gig,  wherein  he  could  go  his  professional  rounds,  and 
drive  Lizzie  to  see  her  mother  on  a  Sunday.  In  the  midst 
of  this  quiet,  monotonous  stream  of  talk,  the  worthy  doc- 
tor was  startled  by  Paul's  suddenly  springing  up  with  the 
cry, 

"Upon  my  soul,  Charles  Saville,  you  are  a  happy  man, 
and  I  am  a  most  miserable  one  !  I  wish  to  heaven  that  I 
were  dead !" 

Lovers,  and  especially  rejected  lovers,  are  generally  slow 
to  communicate  to  any  male  friend  the  story  of  their  suf- 
ferings. They  will  do  so  sometimes  —  nay,  often,  to  a 
friend  of  the  opposite  sex.  A  woman  makes  the  best  con- 
fidante, after  all ;  and  perhaps,  in  such  cases,  womanly 
sympathy  is  the  surest  cure  for  a  heart-wound.  It  is  hard 
to  account  for  the  impulse  that  made  Lynedon  betray  his 
feelings  to  his  old  friend,  except  from  the  fixct  that  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  Avorthy  simple-minded  doctor  was  most  like 
that  of  a  woman.  Perhaps,  too,  the  contrast  in  their  pros- 
pects invited  sympathy ;  and  Lynedon,  having  been  the 
doctor's  patron,  was  disposed  to  like  him,  and  to  be  more 


104  THE    OGILVIES. 

than  usually  communicative.  But,  hoAvever  it  chanced, 
most  certainly  Dr.  Saville  contrived  to  glean  a  great  deal 
of  information  ;  and  by  putting  together  names,  incidents, 
and  exclamations,  to  form  a  tolerable  guess  at  a  great  deal 
more.  In  fact,  if  he  did  not  arrive  at  the  whole  truth,  he 
came  very  near  it,  and  his  prolific  imagination  easily  sup- 
plied the  rest.  But  he  took  care  by  a  respectful  reserve 
to  avoid  startling  the  sensitiveness  of  his  patron ;  and  the 
promise  of  secrecy  with  which  he  bade  Lynedon  adieu  he 
long  and  faithfully  kept — except  with  regard  to  his  "Lizzie." 

Paul,  left  to  himself,  saw  night  close  upon  him  in  the 
lonely  house.  He  felt  more  and  more  its  desolation  and 
his  own.  It  was  not  so  much  the  lost  love,  as  the  need  of 
loving,  which  came  upon  him  with  such  intense  pain.  He 
thought  of  the  poor  village  doctor,  poor  in  mind  as  in  per- 
son, who  yet  could  look  forward  to  a  bright  hearth  made 
happy  by  a  mother's  blessing  and  a  wife's  clinging  arms. 
While  he — the  admired  of  many  a  circle — accustomed  to 
the  honeyed  flatteries  of  many  a  fair  lij)  which  he  knew  to 
be  false  as  his  own — he,  Paul  Lynedon,  stood  alone,  with 
not  a  single  creature  in  the  whole  wide  world  to  love  him. 

"  Not  one — not  one  !"  As  he  despondently  repeated  the 
words,  Lynedon's  eye  fell  upon  a  slij^  of  paper  which  he 
had  carelessly  tossed  out  of  his  pocket-book.  It  was  mere- 
ly a  few  verses — copied  by  his  request — written  out  in  a 
girlish  hand,  evidently  trained  into  the  most  anxious  neat- 
ness. It  bore  the  date  "  Summerwood,"  and  the  signature 
"  Katharine  Ogilvie." 

As  Paul  unfolded  the  paper,  his  face  brightened,  and 
softened  into  tenderness.  There  came  before  him  a  vision 
of  the  dark  eyes  lifted,  for  one  moment  only,  in  sorroAving, 
yearning  love — of  the  fair  lips  which  had  trembled  beneath 
his  OAvn. 

"Dear  little  girl — SAveet  little  Katharine!  I  think  she 
does  care  for  me — God  bless  her  !"  He  felt  almost  inclined 
to  kiss  the  paper,  but  stoi)ped,  reflecting  with  a  half  smile 
that  she  Avas  such  a  child  !  But  even  a  child's  love  was 
Drecious  to  him  then. 


THE    OGILVIES.  105 

"  I  should  .almost  like  to  see  her  agum  before  I  leave  En- 
gland," thought  Paul.  "  But  no — it  would  not  do  !  What 
excuse  could  I  make  for  my  sudden  flight  ?  However,  I 
will  write." 

He  did  write,  as  the  impulse  of  the  moment  dictated. 
It  was  a  letter  which  spoke,  as  his  idle  words  had  done  be- 
fore, every  thing  except  the  positive  declaration  of  love. 
Its  deep  tenderness — its  half  ambiguous  expressions — its 
broken  and  altered  sentences — were  such  as  to  thrill  with 
happiness  any  young  impassioned  heart,  that,  once  deceived 
into  a  fixed  belief,  judges  every  thing  by  its  utter  simplici- 
ty, and  sees  in  all  forms  and  shows  of  love  the  reflection  of 
its  own.  Poor  Katharine  !  These  outpourings  of  a  mo- 
mentary feeling,  forgotten  by  the  writer  ere  they  met  the 
reader's  eye,  what  would  they  be  to  her  ! 

Paul  Lynedon  knew  not — thought  not — cared  not.  A 
few  weeks  after  he  was  mingling  in  the  gayest  salons  of 
Paris,  the  pleasure  and  pain  of  the  last  three  months  hav- 
ing alike  passed  from  his  memory  as  though  they  had  nev- 
er been. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  have  a  moi-e  than  friend 

Across  the  mountains  dim ; 
No  other  voice  to  me  is  sweet 

Unless  it  nameth  him ! 
We  broke  no  gold — a  pledge 

Of  stronger  faith  to  be, 
But  I  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul, 

Which  said,  "I  love  but  thee !" 

I  was  beti-othed  that  day : 
I  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  could  not  give  away. 

E.  B.  BrowniItg. 

There  is  hardly  a  man  in  the  world  who  does  net  feel 
Iiis  pulse  beat  quicker  when,  after  a  short  absence,  he  finds 
himself  nearing  home.  A  commonplace  this — often  said, 
often  written ;  but  there  are  commonplaces,  delicious,  -ever- 


106  THE    OGILVIES. 

fresh  truths,  whicli  seem  the  daisies  on  the  world's  high- 
way :  it  is  hard  not  to  stop  and  gather  them  sometimes. 
So,  beginning  with  tliis  trite  saying,  we  may  go  on  to  re- 
mark that  Philip  vVyclnior's  heart  experienced  a  slight  ad- 
ditional thrill  when,  riding  through  the  grass-grown  streets 

ofL ,  he  saw  the  evening  sun  emblazoning  the  palace 

windows,  and  felt  that  he  was  really  "  coming  home." 

It  is  a  rule  with  novelists — and  a  sterling  one,  in  general 
— that  you  should  never  unveil  your  characters  by  elabo- 
rate descriptions  of  mind  and  person,  but  suffer  them  to 
develop  themselves  in  the  progress  of  the  story ;  shining 
down  upon  them  iintil  they  unfold  beneath  the  sunburst  of 
your  artistic  skill,  instead  of  pulling  them  open  leaf  by  leaf 
with  your  fingers,  and  thus  presenting  to  the  reader  your 
■well-dissected  bouquet  of  human  heart-flowers.  But  in  the 
present  case  we  will  waive  the  aforesaid  excellent  rule,  for 
no  reader  could  ever  find  out  the  inner  character  of  Philip 
Wychnor  from  its  outward  manifestations  in  the  routine 
of  daily  life.  Not  that  he  was  deficient  in  exterior  quali- 
ties to  win  regard.  Most  people  liked  him — or  at  least 
that  half  of  his  character  which  was  most  apparent — and 
said,  as  Hugh  Ogilvie  once  did,  that  he  was  "  a  good  fellow 
enough."  There  was  but  one  in  the  world  who  thorough- 
ly understood  him,  Avho  had  looked  into  the  depths  of  his 
soul.  What  need  is  there  to  say  who  was  that  one — pre- 
cious, loving,  and  beloved — on  whom  he  rested,  and  from 
whom  he  drew  comfort,  strength,  and  peace? 

Philip  Wychnor  would  never  have  made  a  hero,  either 
in  body  or  in  mind — at  least  not  one  of  your  grand  world- 
heroes  who  will  overthrow  an  army  or  perform  some  act 
of  self-devotion  with  which  the  heart  of  history  throbs  for 
a  century  after.  But  there  is  many  a  lauded  martyr  whose 
funeral  pile  is  only  a  huge  altar  to  self-glory,  which  the 
man's  own  dying  hands  have  reared.  The  true  heroes  are 
those  whose  names  the  world  never  hears,  and  never  Avill 
hear — the  blessed  household  martyrs  who  offer  unto  God 
the  sacrifice,  not  of  death's  one  pang,  but  of  life's  long  pa* 
tient  endurance — the  holy  ones  who,  through 


THE    OGILVIES.  10? 

Love's  divine  self-abnegation, 
attain  the  white  robes  and  the  ever-blooming  pahns  of 
those  who  "have  passed  through  much  tribuhition," 

Pliilp  Wychnor  might  have  been  one  of  these. 

But,  wearying  of  our  "  was  nots"  and  "might  have  bcens," 
you  may  ask,  dear  reader,  what  he  was,  A  poet  ?  No  ;  lio 
had  scarcely  ever  strung  together  six  consecutive  rhymes. 
But  his  whole  life  was  a  poem ;  so  pure,  so  rich  in  all  those 
dear  charities  and  holy  influences  which  create  the  poetry 
of  this  world.  Some  of  eartli's  truest  poets  are  outwardly 
dumb,  but  their  singing  is  like  the  music  of  the  stars;  the 
angels  hear  it  up  in  heaven.  How  glorious  such  unheard 
melody  must  be  !  Was  lie  handsome  ?  It  might  be  ;  for 
genius  rarely  exists  without  casting  over  the  outward  frame 
a  certain  spiritual  loveliness,  and  oftentimes  soul  and  body 
grow  linked  together  in  an  exquisite  perfection,  so  that  nei- 
ther materialist  nor  spiritualist  would  think  of  disseveruig 
the  one  from  the  other.  But  the  beauty  of  Philip  Wych- 
nor's  face  was  too  refined — almost  too  feminine — to  attract 
general  notice.  Features  regularly  chiseled  and  delicate- 
ly small,  shadowed  by  hair  of  a  pale  clear  brown,  in  which 
somewhat  rare  tint  no  one  could  detect  either  the  admired 
gold  or  the  widely  condemned  red — a  stature  very  reed- 
like, both  as  to  height  and  slenderness — and  that  personal 
sign  Avhich  in  a  man  so  often  accompanies  exquisite  refine- 
ment of  mind,  a  beautiful  hand,  comprise  the  external  sem- 
blance of  him  whom  m'c  have  hitherto  seen  only  through 
the  reflection  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie's  love. 

Let  him  now  stand  alone  in  his  real  likeness,  ungilded  by 
even  this  love-sunshine ;  a  son  of  Adam,  not  perfect,  but 
still  nearer — ay,  ten  thousand  times — to  that  grand  image 
of  true  manhood  than  the  many  poor  clay  deities,  the  Avork 
of  the  tailor  and  the  fencing-master,  which  draAV  silly  maid- 
ens' eyes  in  drawing-room  or  street.  Stand  forth,  Pliilip 
Wychnor !  Raise  thy  face,  sublime  in  its  gentleness — with 
the  pure  lips  through  which  the  foul  impieties  of  boasting 
youth  never  yet  passed — Avith  the  eyes  that  have  not  scorn- 
ed at  times  to  let  their  lashes  droop  over  a  tear  of  sympa- 


108  THE    OGILVIES. 

thy  or  of  sorrow.  Lift  up  thy  hand,  whicli  never  used  its 
strength  against  a  fellow-creature,  and  was  not  the  less  he- 
roic for  that.  Stand  forth,  Philip  Wychnor,  and  sliow  the 
world  the  likeness  of  a  man  ! 

He  passed  the  iron  gateway,  sprang  up  the  palace-steps 
with  a  speed  worthy  of  an  agile  youth — and  a  lover;  in  a 
minute  the  pleasant  firelit  room  where  Mrs.  Breynton  and 
Eleanor  held  their  after-dinner  chat  was  brightened  by  a 
presence  welcome  to  both.  How  doubly  so  to  one  !  A 
good  and  kind,  if  not  an  affectionate  aunt,  was  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton; and  perhaps  now  as  much  warmtli  as  her  nature  own- 
ed was  expressed  in  tlie  solemn  salutation  which  Philip's 
forehead  received.  And  then  came  the  dear,  close,  linger- 
ing hand-pressure  of  meeting  and  welcome — so  silent,  yet 
so  full  of  alt  faithful  assurance — between  two  who  to  their 
inmost  hearts  knew,  loved,  and  trusted  one  another. 

After  even  a  few  months  of  separation,  it  always  takes  a 
space  of  desultory  talk  before  the  dearest  friends  settle 
down  into  the  quiet  satisfaction  of  nieeting.  So  the  con- 
versation around  that  dear  fireside  at  the  palace  was  rather 
restless  and  wandering,  both  as  to  the  topics  discussed  and 
as  to  the  way  in  which  they  were  sustained.  Philip  found 
himself  listening  to,  or  at  least  hearing  with  his  outward 
ears,  the  full,  true,  aiul  particular  account  of  the  new  bish- 
op's first  sermon,  and  his  lady's  first  call.  It  showed  either 
surprising  forgetfulness  or  true  womanly  tact  in  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton, that  in  her  lengthened  recital  of  that  day's  events  she 
made  no  allusion  to  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon. 

"By-the-by,  my  dear  Philip,  as  you  did  not  write,  I 
scarcely  expected  you  home  quite  so  soon." 

"  I  myself  hardly  looked  for  such  a  pleasure  until  yes- 
terday, when  I  found  I  could  leave.  And  you  know,  Aunt 
Breynton,  that  I  never  lose  any  time  in  coming  to  see  you," 
answered  the  young  man,  affectionately. 

A  pleased,  though  rather  a  sedate  smile  marked  the  ac- 
knowledgments of  Aunt  Breynton  ;  and  then  her  mind 
turned  suddenly  to  the  melancholy  fact  that  no  household 
preparation  was  made  for  the  visitor. 


THE    OGILVIES.  109 

"  This,  you  see,  my  dear  nephew,  is  the  result  of  not  do- 
ing things  reguL^rly.  Had  you  written  the  day  before,  we 
should  have  had  your  room  ready  ;  but  now  I  fear  you  will 
have  to  sleep  Avithout  curtains.  And  I  dare  say  you  have 
not  dined,  and  the  cook  is  gone  to  bed,  most  likely." 

Philip  protested  against  the  accusation  of  hunger,  though 
he  was  quite  unable  to  recollect  whether  he  had  dined  or 
not.  Thereupon  he  was  obliged  to  listen  to  a  few  argu- 
ments concerning  the  necessity  of  taking  care  of  his  heaUh 
and  the  evil  of  long  fasting.  At  last  Mrs.  BreyntoiTs  do- 
mestic anxiety  could  no  longer  restrain  itself,  and  she  rose 
to  quit  the  room.  As  she  passed  the  door,  she  unfortu- 
nately spied  on  a  chair  the  hat  and  gloves  which  her  nephew 
had  thrown  down  on  his  entry.  She  could  not  resist  the 
opportunity. 

''  Philip  !" 

Philip  started  from  an  earnest  gaze  at  the  drooping  pro- 
file which  Avas  reflected  against  the  firelight,  and  opened 
the  door  for  the  old  lady.  The  act  of  politeness  disarmed 
her;  she  liked  the  grave  courtesies  of  old,  and  the  long  lec- 
ture resolved  itself  into — 

"  Thank  you,  Philip.  ISTow  oblige  me  by  ringing  for  the 
footman  to  take  away  these."  She  pointed  to  the  offend- 
ing intruders  on  the  neatness  of  her  drawing-room,  and 
sailed  majestically  away,  the  very  genius  of  tidiness. 

Dear  Eleanor  and  Philip  !  young,  simple-hearted  lovers  ! 
such  as  the  wide  world's  heart  has  ever  yearned  over  in 
song  or  story — ay,  and  ever  will — how  did  they  look  at, 
how  speak  to  each  other?  They  did  neither.  They  stood 
by  the  fire — for  she  had  risen  too — stood  quite  silent,  until 
Philip  took  first  one  hand,  then  both,  in  his. 

"  Eleanor,  are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Glad,  Philip  !"  was  the  low  reply — only  an  echo,  after 
all ;  but  the  clear,  pure  eyes  were  raised  to  his  with  a  full- 
ness of  love  that  gave  all  the  answer  his  own  sought.  He 
lifted  her  hands — he  drew  them,  not  unwilling  to  be  thus 
guided,  aroi;nd  his  neck,  and  folded  to  his  bosom  his  be- 
trothed.    It  was  the  silent  marriage -vow  between  two 


110  THE    OGILVIES. 

hearts,  each  of  which  felt  for  the  first  time  the  other's  puio 
beatings;  a  vow  not  less  sacred  than  the  after  one,  with 
joined  hands  before  the  altar;  a  solemn  troth-plight,  which, 
once  given  and  received  in  sincerity  and  true  love,  no  earth- 
ly power  ought  ever  to  disannul. 

And  surely  the  angels  who  sang  the  marriage-hymn  of 
the  first  lovers  in  Eden  cast  down  on  these  their  holy  eyes 
— ay,  and  felt  that  holiness  unstained  by  the  look.  For 
can  there  be  in  this  Avorld  aught  more  sacred  than  two  be- 
ings who  stand  together,  man  and  woman — heart-betroth- 
ed, ready  to  go  forth  hand  in  hand,  in  glad  yet  solemn 
union,  on  the  same  journey,  toward  the  one  eternal  home  ? 

O  God,  look  down  upon  them!  O  God, bless  them,  and 
fill  them  with  love,  first  toward  Thee  and  then  toward  one 
another  !  Make  them  strong  to  bear  gladly  and  nobly  the 
dear  burden  which  all  must  take  who,  in  loving,  receive 
unto  them  another  soul  with  its  errors  and  its  weaknesses. 
Such — in  their  silent  hearts — ay,  even  amid  the  joy  of 
their  betrothal — was  the  prayer  that  Eleanor  and  Philip 
prayed. 

*  H«  *  !H  * 

When  Mrs.  Breynton  returned,  she  found  the  hat  and 
gloves  lying  precisely  where  she  liad  left  them ;  and 
through  the  half-opened  inner  door  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Eleanor's  black  dress  gliding  up  the  staircase,  while 
Philip  stood  with  his  face  to  the  fire,  trying  with  all  liis 
might  to  commit  the  enormity  of  Avhistling  in  a  drawing- 
room.  How  all  these  conflicting  elements  Avere  finally 
reconciled  is  not  on  record  ;  but  the  fact  is  certain  that,  in 
honor  probably  of  her  nephew's  return,  the  good  old  lady 
sat  np  talking  witli  him  until  past  eleven  o'clock,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  quite  forgot  to  call  the  servants 
to  family  devotions.  Moreover,  as  she  passed  Eleanor's 
room,  she  entered,  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  and  went 
away  without  a  word  save  a  fervent  "  God  bless  you  !" 
Perhaps  the  one  heartfelt  blessing  rose  nearer  to  heaven 
than  leaden-winged  formal  prayers  would  ever  have  climb« 
ed. 


THE    OGILVIES.  Ill 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Has  it  never  occurred  to  us,  when  surrounded  by  sorrows,  that  they  may 
be  sent  to  us  only  for  our  instruction,  as  we  darken  the  cages  of  birds 
when  we  wish  to  teach  tliem  to  sing? — Jeax  Paul. 

Ah  !  fleeter  far  tlian  fleetest  storm  or  steed. 

Or  tlie  deatli  the}'  bear. 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove, 

With  the  wings  of  care. 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  nil  the  comfort,  love, 

It  may  bring  to  thee.— SnELLiiY. 

"And  now,  my  dear  cliildren,  let  us  talk  of  your  pros- 
pects in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  gravely,  Avhen, 
after  a  long  day,  Itappy  indeed,  but  somewhat  restlessly 
spent  by  all  three,  they  sat  once  more  in  the  pleasant  fire- 
light, as  they  had  done  the  evening  before.  The  only  dif- 
ference was  that  Philip  now  ventured  to  sit  on  the  same 
side  of  the  fire  as  Eleanor,  and  in  the  shadowy  flicker  of 
the  blaze  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  tell  precisely 
what  had  become  of  her  hand.  Still,  the  right,  true,  and 
worthy  owner  of  that  little  hand  probably  knew,  and  no 
one  else  had  any  business  to  inquire. 

Mrs.  Breynton  found  it  necessary  to  repeat  her  observa- 
tion, slightly  varied :  "  I  wish,  my  dear  nephew,  and  niece 
that  will  be,  to  talk  seriously  about  your  plans  for  tlie  fu- 
ture. When  do  you  propose  to  marry  ?  and  what  do  you 
propose  to  marry  upon  ?" 

These  point-blank  questions  rather  startled  Philip  and 
his  affianced.  Few  lovers,  especially  young  lovers,  amid 
the  first  burst  of  deep  happiness,  stay  to  think  at  all  of 
those  commonplace  things,  house-furnishing,  house-keep- 
ing, yearly  income,  and  such  like.  A  little  Eleanor  had 
mused,  perhaps  more  than  most  young  girls,  on  the  futuni 
time,  when — the  enthusiastic  devotion  of  the  lover  merged 


112  THE    OGILVIES. 

in  tlie  still  affection  of  the  husband — it  wonld  be  her  part 
less  to  be  ministered  unto  than  to  minister,  surrounding 
him  with  all  comfort  and  love  in  the  dear,  quiet,  blessed 
home — their  home.  But  Philip,  the  dreamer,  still  unac- 
quainted with  the  realities  of  life,  had  never  tliought  of 
these  things  at  all.  They  came  upon  him  almost  bewilder- 
ingly  ;  and  all  the  answer  he  could  make  to  his  aunt's  ques» 
tion  was  the  very  unsatisfactory  one, "I  really  do  not  know." 

Mrs.  Breynton  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  digni- 
fied reproof.  "  This,  I  must  say,  is  the  evil  of  young  peo- 
ple's arranging  their  matrimonial  affairs  for  themselves. 
Nobody  ever  did  so  in  my  day.  Your  excellent  uncle,  the 
Dean,  furnished  the  house  down  to  the  very  stair-carpets 
before  he  even  asked  me  to  marry  him.  And  you,  Philip, 
I  dare  say,  have  not  even  thought  in  what  county  of  Eu- 
gland  you  intend  to  settle?" 

Philip  acknowledged  he  had  not.  Oh,  blessed  Present, 
that  with  its  golden  light  can  so  dim  and  dazzle  the  eyes 
as  to  make  them  scarcely  desire  to  look  further,  even  into 
a  happy  future ! 

Mrs.  Breynton  tried  to  lecture  gravely  upon  improvi- 
dent and  hasty  marriages ;  it  was  lier  way.  And  yet  she 
had  lain  awake  since  seven  o'clock  that  morning,  calcula- 
ting how  much  income  the  curacy  of  Wearmouth  would 
bring  in  yearly,  and  what  it  would  take  to  furnish  that 
pretty  cottage  next  to  the  rectory ;  nay,  she  had  even  set- 
tled the  color  of  the  drawing-room  curtains,  and  was 
doubtful  only  whether  the  carpet  should  be  Axminster  or 
Brussels.  But  she  loved  to  dictate  and  rejirove,  and  then 
sweep  gracefully  round  laden  with  advice  and  assistance. 

Thus,  after  a  due  delay,  she  unfolded  all  her  kindly  pur- 
poses, dilating  with  an  earnestness  and  clerical  apprecia- 
tion worthy  of  the  Dean's  lady  on  the  jjromised  curacy, 
and  the  living  hi prospectu  with  its  great  advantages,  viz., 
the  easy  duty,  large  Easter  offerings,  plenty  of  glebe-land, 
and  a  nobleman's  seat  close  by,  the  owner  of  which  was  de- 
voted to  the  Church,  and  always  gave  practical  marks  of 
his  respect  by  dinners  and  game. 


THE    OGILVIES.  113 

"  I  think,  Phili]^,"  continued  she,  "  that  nothing  could  be 
more  fortunate.  I  have  the  Bishop's  word  for  your  suc- 
ceeding to  the  curacy  immediately  on  your  taking  orders; 
and — though  I  mean  no  disrespect  to  good  Mr.  Vernon — if 
he  should  die  in  a  year  or  two,  as  in  the  course  of  natui'e 
lie  must,  you  will  meanwhile  have  an  opportunity  of  show- 
ino-  his  Grace  wliat  an  agreeable  neighbor  he  might  secure 
by  presenting  you  with  the  living." 

Had  the  worthy  dame  been  able  to  read  her  nephew's 
face,  as  well  as  those  gentle  eyes  which  were  now  lifted  to 
it  with  anxious  tenderness,  she  Avould  have  seen  in  the 
grave,  almost  sad  expression  which  came  OA^er  it,  hoAV  lit- 
tle the  young,  earnest  nature  sympathized  Avith  the  Avorld- 
ly-minded  one.  Philip's  honest  foot  Avould  never  have  en- 
tered the  tainted  Paradise  she  drew.  Respect  restrained 
his  tongue,  as  it  had  done  many  a  time  before  ;  but  Elea- 
nor read  in  liis  silence  what  his  thoughts  Avere.  Honor  be 
to  the  unselfish  and  true  Avomanly  impulse  Avhich  prompt- 
ed her  to  press  fondly  and  encouragingly  the  hand  Avhere- 
in  her  oAvn  lay — as  if  to  say,  "  Stand  fast,  my  beloved  ;  do 
that  which  is  right;  I  am  Avith  you  through  all."  It  Avas 
the  first  taking  upon  herself  of  that  blessed  burden  of  love 
which  through  life's  journey  they  Avere  to  bear  for  one  an- 
other. Philip  leaned  in  spirit  upon  the  helpmate  God  had 
given  him.     He  grew  strong,  and  was  comforted. 

"Dear  aunt,"  he  said,  gently,  "you  are  very  good  to 
think  of  all  these  things,  but  I  feel  b}^  no  means  sure  that  I 
shall  ever  take  orders." 

"  Not  take  orders  !  Avhen  you  have  all  your  life  been 
studying  for  the  Church?"  cried  Mrs. Breynton,  lifting  up 
her  eyes  Avith  the  most  intense  astonishment.  "Philip 
Wychnor  I  Avhat  can  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Philip,  sloAvly  and  firmly,  though  in  a 
tone  low  and  humble  as  a  child's,  "  that  for  the  last  year  I 
have  thought  much  and  deeply  of  the  life  apparently  be- 
fore me.  I  have  seen  how  the  sanctity  of  the  Church  is 
profaned  by  those  servants  Avho,  at  its  very  threshold,  take 
either  an  utterly  false  a'OW,  or  one  only  half  understood 


114  THE    OGILVIES. 

and  wholly  disregarded.     I  dare  not  lay  upon  my  soul  this 


sin." 


Mrs.  Breynton's  temperament  was  too  frigid  to  be  often 
disturbed  by  violent  jiassion ;  but  it  was  easy  to  see,  from 
the  restless  movements  of  her  fingers  and  the  sudden 
twitching  of  her  thin,  compressed  lips,  how  keenly  she  was 
agitated  by  her  nephew's  words. 

"  Then,  sir,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  you  are  about  to  in- 
form me  that  you  have  followed  the  example  of  other  wild, 
misguided  young  men,  and  dissented  from  the  Establish- 
ment ;  in  short,  that  you  no  longer  believe  in  our  Holy 
Church." 

"I  do  believe  in  it,"  cried  Philip,  earnestly.  "I  believe 
it  to  be  the  j^urest  on  earth ;  but  no  human  form  of  wor- 
ship can  be  wholly  pure.  I  have  never  quitted,  and  never 
sliall  quit,  the  Church  in  which  I  was  born ;  but  I  will  not 
bind  myself  to  believe — or  say  I  believe — all  her  dogmas; 
and  I  dare  not,  in  the  sight  of  God,  declare  that  I  feel  call- 
ed by  His  Spirit  to  be  a  minister  at  the  altar  when  I  do 
not  sincerely  think  I  am." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  right  you  have  to  think  any  thing 
at  all  about  the  matter?  This  is  merely  a  form  of  ordina- 
tion, which  men  much  wiser  and  more  pious  than  yourself 
—  excuse  me,  Philip  —  have  appointed,  and  which  every 
clergyman  passes  through  without  any  scruple.  The  words 
mean  only  that  the  candidate  is  a  good  man,  and  will  not 
disgrace  the  cloth  he  wears.  Yoi;r  \\nc\o  explained  it  all 
to  me  once.  Philip,"  continued  Mrs.  Breynton,  losing  the 
old  scorn  of  her  manner  in  the  real  earnestness  of  her  feel- 
ings, "  you  would  not,  surely,  give  up  your  prospects  in  life 
for  such  a  trifle  as  this?" 

"A  trifle  !"  echoed  Philip,  sadly,  as  he  saw  how  vain  it 
would  be  to  explain  his  motives  further,  and  felt  keenly 
the  bitterness  his  determination  would  give  to  his  aunt's 
mind.  She,  fancying  that  in  his  silence  she  had  gained  an 
advantage,  pursued  it  with  all  the  skill  of  which  she  wa-- 
capable. 

"My  dear  nephew,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing? 


THE    OGILYIES.  115 

Have  you  forgotten  that  your  whole  education  has  been 
bent  toward  this  end;  that  your  own  small  fortune— per- 
haps a  little  more,  to  which  I  will  not  allude— has  gone  in 
college  expenses  for  the  same  purpose;  that  if  you  follow 
your  present  wild  scheme,  you  nnist  begin  life  anew,  with 
nothinsT  in  this  world  to  trust  to  ?" 

"Except  an  honest  heart  and  a  clear  conscience." 

How^  tender  and  holy  Avas  the  light  in  those  sweet  eyes 
that  looked  up  in  his — how^  warm  the  pressure  of  the  other 
hand,  not  the  clasped  one,  which  of  its  own  accord  twined 
round  his  arm  in  fond  encouragement !  He  needed  the 
strength  thus  imparted,  for  his  own  was  sorely  shaken  by 
Mrs.  Breynton's  next  words — uttered  in  a  tone  where  anger 
and  disappointment  triumphed  over  all  assumed  composure. 

"Listen  to  me,  Philip  Wychnor.  You  are  about  to  act 
like  a  madman,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  restrain  you  if  I 
can.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  remember  how  I  have  brought 
you  up  with  this  purpose  in  view,  treating  you  less  like  my 
brother's  child  than  my  own ;  nor  do  I  speak  of  my  disap- 
pointment— for  I  know^  your  great  heroes  for  conscience' 
sake  think  little  of  these  things,"  she  added,  with  a  sarcas- 
tic meaning  that  cut  Philip  to  the  heart.  He  sprang  up  to 
speak. 

"  jSTay,  sit  down  again  ;  I  am  not  accustomed  to  scenes," 
said  the  old  lady,  coldly.  "I  knew  a  young  man  once — ■ 
he  was  not  unlike  you, Philip" — and  Mrs.  Breynton  regard- 
ed her  nephew  with  a  smile  half  bitter,  half  mournful — "he, 
too,  for  a  whim — a  boyish  whim — gave  up  the  Church,  and 
his  father  turned  him  out  into  the  wide  world — to  starve. 
His  mother  broke  her  heart ;  and  the  gii'l  he  was  about  to 
marry — still,  like  you — she  grieved  until  her  friends  per- 
suaded her  to  wed  another  lover;  but  they  could  not  give 
back  her  withered  youth — her  poor  broken  lieart.  "Will 
you  hearken,  Philip,  now  ?  for  the  man  was  your  father,  and 
that  gentle  creature  whom  he  basely  forsook  was  the  dear- 
est friend  I  ever  had — ay,  and  the  mother  of  your  Eleanor !" 

Struck  with  surprise,  and  deeply  moved,  the  two  young 
lovers  impulsively  started  from  each  other's  side — but  only 


5 
5) 


116  THE    OGILVIES. 

for  a  moment.  Closer  they  drew  together,  in  that  painful 
lime  of  agitation  unrestrained  by  outward  form;  and  Philip 
murmured,  as  he  wound  his  arm  round  her, 

"  Mine — mine  still — for  all  the  past.  She  will  trust  me : 
my  Eleanor — my  own  !" 

Mrs.  Breynton  went  on.  "  Xow,  Philip  Wj'chnor,  you 
may  follow  your  father's  steps  if  you  like;  but  I  solemnly 
declare  that  if  you  persist  in  this,  and  disgrace  the  family 
as  he  did,  I  will  give  up  my  purpose  of  making  you  my 
heir;  and,  that  you  may  not  bring  poverty  on  that  dear 
child  whom  I  have  loved  all  her  life  for  her  mother's  sake 
with  my  consent  you  shall  never  marry  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Too  angry  to  trast  herself  with  another  AVord,Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton swept  out  of  the  room. 

Philip  had  started  up  to  detain  her,  but  she  was  gone. 
He  paced  the  room  in  violent  agitation,  never  looking  to- 
Avard  Eleanor;  then  he  threw  himself  beside  a  table  in  the 
larthest  and  darkest  corner,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his  fold- 
ed arms  as  if  quite  oblivious  even  of  her  presence. 

For  this  a  pi'oud  woman  would  have  treated  her  lover 
with  silent  indignation  ;  a  selfish  one  would  have  let  loose 
her  wounded  vanity  in  a  burst  of  reproaches  ;  but  Eleanor 
was  neither  selfish  nor  proud.  A  single  pang  shot  through 
her  heart  as  she  sat  alone  and  unnoticed  by  the  fire;  two 
or  three  tears  fell ;  and  then  the  true  woman's  nature  tri- 
umphed. She  had  not  bestowed  her  love  for  the  poor  re- 
quital of  outward  attentions  such  as  wooers  pay;  she  had 
not  meted  it  out,  share  for  share,  as  if  love  were  a  thing  to 
be  weighed  and  measured.  She  had  given  it  freely,  knit- 
ting her  soul  unto  his,  until  she  felt  and  lived,  sufliered  and 
rejoiced,  not  in  herself  or  for  herself,  but  in  him  and  for 
him. 

Eleanor  rose  and  glided  noislessly  across  the  room  until 
she  stood  beside  her  lover.  In  truth,  he  hardly  felt  that 
she  was  near  him.  A  few  faint  beatings  were  there  in  the 
young  maiden  heart  at  the  new  and  solemn  office  that  be- 
came  hers ;  one  passing  flush,  and  then  all  earthly  feelings 
were  stilled  by  the  mute  prayer  which  spoke  in  the  lifted 


THE    OGILYIES.  11  "7 

eyes.  She  stooped  down,  laid  her  arms  round  Philip's 
neck,  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

He  started — almost  shivered  beneath  the  touch  of  her 
lips. 

"Oh,  my  God  !  how  shall  I  bear  this?  Don't  speak  to 
me,  Eleanor ;  don't  touch  me,  or  I  shall  have  no  strength 
at  all.     Go  away  !" 

But  the  next  moment  the  harsh  accents  melted  into  tears 
•^-such  a  burning  flood  as  rarely  bursts  even  from  man's 
pent-up  suffering.  Eleanor,  terrified,  almost  heartbroken, 
was  yet  the  stronger  now.  A  woman  who  loves  always  is. 
She  knelt  beside  him :  it  was  on  her  bosom  that  his  tears 
fell,  and  he  did  not  turn  away.  How  could  he  ?  A  child 
does  not  cling  to  its  mother  with  more  utter  helplessness 
than  did  Philip  to  his  betrothed  in  that  hour  of  suffering. 

And  she — as  she  bent  over  him,  her  heart  lifted  itself  up 
in  silent  breathings  of  the  prayer  that  she  might  grow 
strong,  to  strengthen  liim^  and  trustful,  to  comfort  him. 

"  O  God  !"  was  that  inward  prayer,  "  if  it  must  be,  take 
all  the  sunshine  out  of  my  life  and  give  it  to  his  !  Oh ! 
would  that  I  could  die  for  thee,  my  heart's  dearest — my 
pride — my  husband P'' 

And  as  she  breathed  over  him  the  name,  as  yet  unclaim- 
ed, it  seemed  an  omen  that  this  cloud  w^ould  pass  away, 
and  the  time  surely  come  when  her  lips  should  have  a  right 
to  echo  the  heail's  voice. 

"  You  see  how  weak  I  am,  Eleanor,"  Philip  said,  with  a 
mournful  attempt  at  a  smile — "  I,  who  yesterday  told  you 
how  I  W' ould  brave  the  world ;  and  now  I  cling  helplessly 
to  Y<^ii.  But  it  must  not  be — she  was  ritrht — I  should  onH 
bring  trouble  on  you.  I  must  stand  alone.  Eleanor,  take 
your  arm  away;  it  weighs  me  down  like  lead.  Oh  !  would 
that  we  were  only  friends — that  yesterday  had  never  been !" 

He  spoke  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  without  thinking  of 
her.  Eleanor  cast  one  glance  upon  him,  and  knew  this. 
Blessings  on  that  unselfish  nature  which,  knowing,  at  once 
forgave. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  speaking  quickly  and 


118  THE    OGILVIES. 

abruptly,  "have  you  thouglit  wliat  will  be  the  end  of  this? 
Do  you  know  that  I  can  not  marry  you — at  least  not  for 
many,  many  years ;  that  I  have  notliing  to  live  upon,  be- 
cause I  was  too  proud  to  be  entirely  dependent  on  Aunt 
Breynton,  and,  as  slie  truly  says,  I  spent  my  little  all  at 
college,  intending  to  enter  the  Churcli?  Even  after  my 
mind  was  changed,  I  went  dreaming  on,  never  thinking  of 
the  future — fool  that  I  was  !  And  yet  most  people  would 
say  I  am  a  greater  fool  now,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter  smile 
— "ay,  and  something  of  a  villain  to  boot.  Eleanor,  after 
all,  I  think  I  will  take  tlie  curacy.  I  shall  not  be  a  greater 
hypocrite  than  many  of  those  in  gown  and  band;  and  I 
shall  keep  my  vow  to  you,  if  I  break  it  to  Heaven." 

"Never!  Do  you  think  I  would  let  you  sell  your  con- 
science for  me  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  be  your  wife 
then?  No — for  I  should  not  love — I  sliould  despise  you! 
Nay,  I  did  not  mean  that,  Philip" — and  her  voice  softened 
almost  into  weeping — "only  it  would  break  my  heart  if 
you  did  this  wickedness.  You  must  not — shall  not — nay, 
you  will  not.     My  own  Philij),  tell  me  that  you  will  not." 

And,  kneeling  before  him,  Eleanor  made  her  lover  sol- 
emnly utter  the  ])romise  which  would  for  years  doom  them 
both  to  the  heart-sickness  of  hope  deferred.  Then  she  sat 
down  beside  him  and  took  his  liand. 

"Now  let  us  consider  what  is  best  to  be  done.  Do  not 
think  of  yesterday  at  all,  if  it  pains  you.  Forget  that  we 
were  betrothed — talk  to  me  as  to  a  friend  only — a  dear 
friend — who  regards  your  honor  and  happiness  above  every 
thing  in  this  world.     Shall  it  be  so,  Philip?" 

"  God  1)less  my  Eleanor — my  strength — my  comfort !" 
Avas  his  answer.  The  Avords  Avere  more  precious  to  her 
than  the  wildest  outbursts  of  lover-like  adoration  could 
ever  have  been. 

They  talked  together  long  and  seriously — like  old  friends. 
And  this  was  no  pretense,  for  none  are  true  lovers  who  have 
not  also  for  one  another  the  still  thoughtful  aftection  of 
friends.  Her  calmness  gave  him  strength — her  clear,  pen- 
etrating mind  aided  his;  and,  the  first  shock  over,  Philip 


THE    OGILVIES.  119 

seemed  to  jdess  at  once  from  the  dreaminess  of  aimless  boy- 
hood to  the  self-reliance  and  courage  of  a  man.  And  still 
beside  him,  in  all  his  plans,  hopes,  and  fears,  was  the  faith- 
ful woman-heart,  as  brave,  as  seH-denying,  never  looking 
back,  but  croino-  forward  with  him  into  the  dim  future,  and 
half  dispersing  its  mists  with  the  light  of  love. 

"And  you  will  forgive  me,  my  dearest,"  said  Philip, when 
they  had  decided  how  and  where  he  was  to  begin  the  hard 
battle  with  the  world — "you  Avill  forgive  me  for  bringing 
this  trouble  upon  you;  and,  in  spite  of  these  erring  words 
of  mine,  you  will — "' 

Pie  hesitated,  but  Eleanor  went  on  for  him. 

"  I  will  wa^t — for  years  if  it  must  be — until  Philip  makes 
for  me  a  home — happier  and  dearer  for  tlie  long  waiting. 
And  who  knows  how  rich  it  may  be,  too  ? — a  great  deal 
richer  than  that  tiny  cottage  at  Wearmouth."  She  tried 
to  speak  gayly,  though  'the  smile  which  her  lips  assunied 
could  not  reach  her  e^-es,  and  soon  melted  into  seriousness 
as  she  continued:  "Besides, dear  Philip, thei'e  is  one  thought 
which  lies  deep  —  almost  painfully  —  in  my  heart,  though 
your  generous  lips  have  never  breatlied  it.  I  can  not  for- 
get that  lialf  your  cares  would  have  been  lightened  had  the 
girl  whom  you  chose  possessed  ever  so  little  fortune,  instead 
of  being  left  dependent  on  a  brother's  kindness.  How  I 
have  wished  to  be  rich  for  your  sake." 

"Foolish  girl !  why,  you  are  my  riches,  my  comfort,  my 
joy!"  cried  Philip,  drawing  closely  into  his  very  heart  his 
affianced  wife.  She  clung  there  closer  in  sorrow  than  she 
had  ever  done  in  joy.  "  If  this  day's  trial  had  never  been, 
and  we  could  be  again  as  we  were  last  night — would  you 
wish  it,  Eleanor  ?" 

"No!"  she  answered.  "No!  for  even  then  I  knew  not 
fully,  as  I  do  now,  how  true,  how  worthy,  how  noble  was 
my  Philip." 

At  this  precise  moment  Mrs.  Breynton's  voice  was  heard 
without.  With  her  entered  an  old  subdean  who  lived  in 
the  Close,  and  who  had  come  in  nearly  every  evening  for 
Bome  six  years,  during  which  he  and  Mrs.  Breynton  had 


120  THE    OGILVIES. 

played  an  infinity  of  games  at  backgammon.  Mr.  Sedlej" 
did  not  know  what  a  relief  liis  presence  was  this  evening 
— by  casting  the  veil  of  outward  formality  over  the  con- 
flicting emotions  of  the  trio  at  the  palace.  So  the  worthy 
old  clergyman  talked  with  Philip  about  Oxford — i^aid  his 
labored,  old-fashioned,  but,  withal,  affectionate  compliments 
to  his  particular  favorite.  Miss  Ogilvie — and  then  engaged 
Mrs.  Breynton  in  their  beloved  game.  During  its  progress 
Eleanor  gladly  retired  for  the  night. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  she  met  Philip,  who  had  fol- 
lowed unperceived.  He  looked  very  psde,  and  his  voice 
trembled,  though  he  tried  to  sj^eak  as  usuak 

"Eleanor,  say  good-night  to  me;  not  formally,  as  just 
now,  but  as  we  did  that  happy  yesterday." 

She  took  both  his  hands,  and  looked  up  lovingly  in  his 
face. 

"  Good-night,  then,  dear  Philip  !" 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  many  times. 
She  spoke  to  him  hopeful  words;  and  they  were  uttered 
in  sincerity,  for  her  own  spirit  was  so  full  of  love  and  faitli, 
both  in  God  and  man,  that  she  had  little  doubt  of  the  future. 

"To-morrow,  Philip — all  will  seem  brighter  to  us  to-mor- 
row," was  her  adieu. 

He  Avatched  her  glide  up  the  staircase,  turning  once  round 
to  cast  on  him  that  quiet,  love-beaming  smile  peculiar  to 
herself.    Then  he  leaned  against  the  wall  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  The  bitterness  is  past !"  murmured  Phili^J.  "  Now  I 
can  go  forth  alone." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past — it  returns  no  more.  "Wisely  im- 
prove the  present ;  and  go  forth  into  the  shadowy  future  without  fear  and 
with  a  manly  heart. — Longfellow, 

Eleaxor  arose  next  morning  composed — almost  cheer- 
ful. True,  there  had  been,  on  her  first  waking,  a  feeling  of 
oppression  as  though  some  vague  sorrow  had  chanced,  un- 


THE    OGILVIES.  121 

der  the  shadow  of  which  she  still  lay  ;  and  a  few  tears  had 
stolen  through  the  yet  closed  eyes,  chasing  away  sleep,  and 
making  the  faint  daylight  a  welcome  visitant.  But  when 
she  had  arisen  and  looked  out  on  the  bright  spring  morning, 
all  this  waking  pain  changed  into  a  quiet  hopefulness.  One 
creeps  so  soon  out  of  the  gloom  into  the  light — at  least, 
when  one  is  young  !  The  early  swallows  were  flying  mer- 
rily in  and  out  of  the  eaves ;  the  morning  sun  glistened 
cheerfully  on  the  three  spires  of  the  cathedral,  though  its 
walls  still  lay  in  heavy  shadow.  But  the  girl's  eyes  looked 
upward  only,  and  therefore  it  was  the  sunshine  she  saw, 
not  the  shade. 

She  thought  of  Philip's  dear,  precious  love — now  all  her 
own — and  of  his  noble  nature,  both  of  which  had  been  tried, 
and  come  out  with  a  brightness  that  made  her  forget  the 
refining  fire.  Iler  soul  was  so  unworldly,  so  filled  with 
trusting  affection,  that  she  had  no  fear.  She  was  ready  to 
let -her  lover  go  forth  into  the  world,  believing  entirely  in 
him,  and  confiding  so  much  in  the  world  itself,  that  she  felt 
sure  its  storms  would  subside  and  its  evils  be  removed  be- 
fore him.  Simjile  girl !  And  yet  perhaps  tliere  was  more 
in  her  theory  than  many  imagine.  It  is  the  faithful,  the 
holy-hearted  ones,  who  walk  calmly  and  safely  on  the  troub- 
led waters  of  the  world. 

Eleanor  was  still  musing,  more  thoughtfully  than  sadly, 
and  considerincr  Avhethcr  or  not  she  should  descend  to  tell 
Philip  the  fruit  of  her  hopeful  meditations,  when  Davis 
brought  a  letter. 

"  Mr.  Wychnor  told  me  to  give  you  this,  ma'am,  as  soon 
as  I  heard  you  stirring." 

Eleanor  changed  color,  and  her  fingers  trembled  over  the 
seal. 

"  I  hope.  Miss  Ogilvie,  that  nothing  is  amiss  with  Master 
Philip.  He  looked  so  ill  this  morning — and  I  could  not 
persuade  him  to  have  any  breakfast  before  he  went  away." 

"  Went  away  !" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  miss ;  he  st?t  off  before  it  was  quite  light, 
by  the  early  London  coach." 


122  THE    OGILVIES. 

E!eanor''s  fingers  tightened  over  the  unopened  letter,  and 
her  very  lips  grew  white;  yet  she  had  self-control  enough 
to  speak  calmly. 

"  Indeed,  Davis,  you  need  not  be  uneasy.  Mr.  Wychnor 
has  probably  taken  his  journey  a  day  or  two  sooner  than 
he  intended — that  is  all." 

"I'd  stake  my  life  it's  not  all,"  muttered  the  good  wom- 
an, as  she  courtesied  herself  out.  "I  only  hope  there  is 
nothing  wrong  between  him  and  Miss  Eleanor— bless  their 
dear  hearts  !     They  was  born  for  one  another  swe-ly  P'' 

Eleanor  threw  herself  on  the  bed  with  a  passionate  burst 
of  weeping  that  for  many  minutes  would  not  be  restrained. 

"Oh  Philip,  Philip,  why  did  you  go?"  she  said;  and  it 
was  long  before  her  grief  found  any  solace,  save  in  the  ut- 
terance of  this  despairing  cry.  She  was  but  a  girl — with 
all  the  weakness  of  a  deep  first  love — but  she  had  also  its 
strength.  So,  after  a  time, her  sobs  grew  calmer;  and  while 
with  still  dimmed  eyes  she  read  Philip's  lettei-,  its  peaceful 
influence  passed  into  her  spirit.  Even  then  it  was  so  bless- 
ed to  read  this  first  letter,  and  to  see  there  written  down 
the  love  which  she  had  before  heard  his  lips  declare.  The 
words  "  My  own  Eleanor,"  smiling  at  her  from  the  top  of 
the  page,  almost  took  away  the  pain  of  that  sad  hour.  And 
as  she  read  on,  tracing  in  every  earnest  line  the  bi-ave,  true 
heart  of  him  who  wrote,  she  became  comforted  more  -and 
more. 

"Eleanor!"  ran  this  dear  record — (Reader,  do  not  be 
alarmed  lest  Ave  should  transcribe  an  ordinary  love-letter, 
for,  though  full  of  affection,  Phili])  had  in  him  something 
of  reserve,  and  far  too  much  of  good  sense  ever  to  indulge 
in  the  fantastic  rhapsodies  which  have  passed  into  a  prov- 
erb)— "Eleanor,  you  must  not  think  this  departure  of  mine 
hasty  or  ill-advised  ;  unkind  you  will  not ;  for  you  love  me, 
and  know  that  I  love  you  better  than  any  thing  on  earth, 
therefore  there  can  be  no  thought  of  unkindness  between 
us.  I  have  gone  away  because,  knowing  my  aunt  as  Avel! 
as  I  do,  I  see  no  prospect,  had  I  remained,  of  aught  but  add- 
ed bitterness  and  pain  for  us  all.     And  though  I  can  not — ■ 


THE    OGILVIES.  123 

dare  not — suffer  myself  unwortliily  to  enter  iipon  that 
course  which  she  lias  laid  out  for  me,  God  forbid  that  I 
should  in  v/ord  or  deed  return  evil  for  many  kindnesses 
which  she  has  shown  me  all  my  life  through.  Oh, Eleanor! 
when  I  sit  here  in  the  quiet  night-time,  and  think  of  those 
boyish  days,  I  almost  doubt  whether  I  am  really  right  in 
thwarting  her  desire  so  much.  But  yet  I  could  not — you. 
with  your  pure  right-mindedness,  you  yourself  said  I  ought 
not  to  do  this  tiling.  And  have  I  not  also  given  u^)  youf 
Surely  it  must  be  a  holy  and  a  worthy  sacrifice  ! 

"Dearest!  if  in  this  I  have  done  my  aunt  wrong — and  I 
feel  my  heart  melt  toward  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  harsh 
words,  ay,  and  the  bitter  taunts  which  she  gave  me  this 
night  when  you  were  not  by — if  I  have  done  her  wrong, 
you  will  atone  it.  She  reproached  me  with  casting  you  off 
— you,  my  heart's  treasure  !  She  said  that  her  hearth  and 
home  should  at  least  be  open  to  you.  Let  it  be  so  !  Stay 
with  her,  Eleanor ;  give  her  the  dutiful  care  that  I  ought 
to  have  shown  :  it  will  comfort  me  to  know  this.  You  see 
how  I  trust  you,  as  if  you  were  a  part  of  myself,  feeling 
that  her  harsh  condemnations  of  me  will  never  alter  your 
love.  And  if  her  mind  should  change — if  she  should  learn 
to  see  with  our  eyes  many  things  whereon  she  differs  from 
us  now,  and  should  find  out  why  it  was  I  acted  thus,  how 
will  the  influence  of  my  own  gentle  girl  prove  a  blessing 
to  us  all !  In  this  I  think  not  of  worldly  fortune.  I  will 
fight  my  own  way,  and  be  indebted  to  no  one  on  earth, 
save  for  the  help  of  affection. 

"And  now,  beloved,  I  set  out  for  the  path  on  which  we 
decided.  Thank  heaven  that  I  can  write  %oe! — that  I  car- 
ry with  7ne  your  precious  love — that  we  are  one  in  heart 
and  mind — and  look  forward  to  one  future,  which  I  Aviil 
work  out.  Send  me  away  with  a  blessing  !  Yet  you  luive 
done  so  already.  Eleanor,  that  one  smile  of  yours — you 
did  not  know  it  was  the  last,  but  I  did — will  rest  in  my 
heart,  and  be  its  strength  until  I  see  you  again.  Forgive 
me  that  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  say  '  Good-by.'  Yet 
it  is  hardly  a  farewell  between  those  whose  hearts  and 

E2 


124  THE    OGILVIES. 

thoughts  are  ever  united !  God  gi'ant  it  may  be  eA^en  so 
until  our  lives'  end — and  after  /" 

More  did  Philip  write  concerning  his  worldly  plans  and 
the  arrangement  of  tlieir  future  correspondence.  All  that 
he  said  was  calm,  breathing  perhaps  more  of  steadfast  pa- 
tience than  of  hope,  but  still  without  a  shade  of  fear  either 
for  himself  or  for  her.  When  Eleanor  laid  down  the  letter 
of  her  lover  there  was  not  a  tear  in  her  eye — not  a  sigh  on 
her  lip. 

"God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved!"  she  said,  fervently ; 
put  the  letter  in  her  bosom,  and  went  down  stairs. 

In  the  hall  she  met  the  old  waiting-woman, Davis,  coming 
out  of  the  breakfast-room,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ogilvie  !"  cried  the  poor  soul,  "  I  can't  tell 
what  has  come  over  my  mistress.  Sixteen  years  have  I 
been  in  this  house,  and  never  saw  her  look  so  before.  She 
did  not  speak  a  word  all  the  while  I  vv^as  dressing  her,  until 
Master  Philip's  little  dog  whined  at  the  door,  and  then  she 
grew  very  angry,  and  ordered  me  to  go  and  tell  James  to 
shoot  it  or  hang  it,  for  she  did  not  Avant  to  be  troubled 
with  it  any  more.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears,  Miss 
Eleanor — I  couldn't,  indeed — so  good  as  she  used  to  be  to 
poor  little  Flo.  And  Avhen  I  only  stood  staring  instead  of 
going  off,  she  stamped  her  foot  and  ordered  me  out  of  the 
room.     To  think  that  my  lady  should  have  served  me  so  !" 

"  She  did  not  mean  it,  good  Davis ;  she  is  very  fond  of 
you,"  said  Eleanor,  soothingly.  There  was  room  enough 
in  her  heart  for  every  one's  sorroAVS,  great  and  small. 

"  I  hope  so,  miss ;  indeed,!  should  not  care  so  much,  ex- 
cept that  I  fear  something  has  gone  Avrong  betAveen  her 
and  Master  Philip.  I  happened  to  let  fall  a  Avord  about 
his  being  gone,  but  she  seemed  to  knoAv  it  herself  before- 
hand. She  turned  round  so  shar^oly,  and  desired  me  never 
to  mention  his  name,  but  to  go  and  lock  up  his  room  just 
as  it  Avas,  for  he  Avould  not  want  it  again.  Ay,  dear !  hoAV 
sorry  I  shall  be  not  to  see  the  young  master  here  any 
more  !" 

Eleanor  felt  her  own  eyes  growing  dim,  and  a  choking 


THE    OGILVIES.  125 

in  her  throat  prevented  any  reply.  The  good  woman  wsnt 
on  in  her  voluble  grief. 

"  Well, well!  servants  have  no  business  with  their  mas- 
ters' or  mistresses'  affairs ;  but  I  do  feel  sorry  about  poor 
Master  Philip.  And  there  is  another  thing  that  troubles 
me ;  he  left  me  this  letter  for  my  mistress,  and  for  the  life 
of  me  I  daren't  give  it  to  her  myself  If  it  were  not  mak- 
ing too  free,  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  wish  you  would." 

Eleanor  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  letter.  "  Where 
is  Mrs.  Breynton  '?"  she  asked. 

"At  the  breaklast-table,  miss — sitting  bolt  upright,  like 
— I  don't  know  what.  Bless  us  all — but  she's  off  already. 
Poor  young  lady  !  something  is  the  matter  with  her  too, 
for  I  saw  the  tears  in  her  pretty  eyes.  Well,  I  don't  think 
she's  quarreled  Avith  Master  Philip,  or  she  would  not  have 
looked  at  his  letter  so  tenderly— just  as  I  used  to  do  at 
poor  Samuel's.     Ah !  lack-a-day  I  it's  a  troublesome  world !" 

And  the  starched  old  maid  went  away  up  stairs,  rubbing 
with  a  corner  of  her  apron  each  of  her  dull  gray  eyes. 
They  might  have  been  young  and  bright  once  —  who 
knows? 

Mrs,  Breynton  sat,  a  very  statue  of  rigidity,  in  her  usual 
place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  her  face  as  smooth  and  un- 
wrinkled  as  her  dress.  She  said  "  Good-morning,  Eleanor, 
my  dear,"  in  the  usual  tone — neither  warmer  nor  colder 
than  the  salutation  had  been  for  years ;  and  the  hand  with 
M'hich  she  poured  out  the  coffee  was  as  steady  as  ever. 
Eleanor  almost  began  to  think  that  the  painful  events  of 
the  night  and  morning  were  only  a  dream,  so  perfectly  as- 
tounded was  she  by  the  manner  of  the  old  lady. 

She  had  come  with  a  swelling  heart  to  throw  herself  at 
the  knees  of  Philip's  aunt,  and  beg  her  to  forgive  him,  or, 
at  least,  to  receive  from  herself  all  the  loving  care  that  was 
in  the  heart  of  the  nephew  whom  she  had  discarded.  But 
at  the  sight  of  that  frigid,  composed  face — so  indifferent,  so 
unmarked  by  any  sign  of  suffering,  regret,  or  even  anger — 
Eleanor  felt  all  her  own  warm  impulses  completely  frozen. 
She  could  as  easily  have  poured  out  her  feelings  before  the 


12G  THE    OGILVIES. 

grim  old  figures  sitting  in  their  niclies  on  the  old  cathedral 
wall.  Philip's  letter  was  still  in  her  hand — almost  uncon- 
sciously she  thrust  it  out  of  sight;  and  the  voice  which  re- 
plied to  the  morning  salutation,  though  tremulous,  was  al- 
most as  cold  as  Mrs.  Breynton's  own.  Eleanor  took  her 
place  at  the  breakfast-table  just  as  though  she  had  nevei 
passed  through  these  sudden  phases  of  love,  joy,  sorrow — 
events  which  would  govern  a  lifetime. 

Mechanically  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  familiar  objects 
about  the  room — the  boy's  portrait  that  hung  on  the  wall 
— the  orange-trees  and  the  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  now 
brightened  by  a  week's  more  sunshine.  It  was  one  week 
only  since  the  morning  when  Philip  and  Philip's  fortunes 
had  been  talked  of,  sending  sucli  a  pleasant  thrill  to  hei' 
heart :  how  much  one  little  week,  iiay,  one  day,  had  brought 
forth  ! 

Mrs.  Breynton  began,  apparently  without  an  eflbrt,  her 
usual  morning  conversation.  This  never  rambled  far  be- 
yond what  might  literally  be  considered  table-talk :  the 
dryness  of  toast,  and  the  over  or  under  boiling  of  eggs, 
seemed  always  subjects  sufficiently  engrossing  at  that  ear- 
ly hour  of  the  day.  Thus  she  succeeded  in  passing  away 
the  half-hour  which  to  Eleanor  seemed  insupportable.  The 
latter  many  times  was  on  the  point  of  giving  way  to  her 
pent-up  feelings,  when  a  word  or  tone  sent  them  all  back 
again  to  the  depth  of  her  heart.  How  could  she  ever  find 
courage  to  deliver  Philip's  letter. 

The  breakfast  equipage  was  already  removed,  and  still 
nothing  had  been  uttered  between  them  except  those  ordi- 
nary commonplaces  Avhieh  froze  Eleanor's  very  heart. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  the  retreating  James,  "  the 
gardener  told  me  to  ask  if  you  would  have  the  auricula? 
planted  out,  as  the  weather  is  so  warm  now,  and  he  has  al- 
ways done  this  about  Easter  ?" 

There  was  the  faintest  possible  trembling  of  Mrs.  Bi-eyn- 
ton's  mouth — and  she  dropped  a  few  stitches  in  her  knit- 
ting. Then,  walking  to  the  window  to  take  them  up,  she 
answered,  rather  angrilj^ 


THE    OGILVIES.  127 

"Tell  Morris  I  shall  judge  myself  about  the  matter,  autl 
will  speak  to  him  to-morrow." 

Eleanor  watched  all  witli  intense  anxiety.  She  marked 
how  the  reference  to  Easter  had  startled  Mrs.  Breynton 
from  her  indifterence,  showing  how  much  of  it  was  assumed. 
Tremulously  she  advanced  to  the  window. 

"  Sliall  I  make  the  knitting  right  for  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear;  I  really  can  not  see  so  well  as  I 
used  to  do." 

Eleanor  gave  back  the  work,  and  with  it  Philip's  letter. 

"  What  is  this?"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  sharply. 

"  Oh,  dear  friend,  read  it — pray  read  it,  and  then  you  will 
forgive  him — foi'give  me.  Indeed,  you  do  not  know  how 
unhappy  we  are  !" 

Mrs.  Breynton  walked  across  the  room  to  the  fire.  It 
bad  gone  out  in  the  sunshine.  She  laid  the  letter  on  the 
table,  and  rang  the  bell.  Eleanor  rose  up  as  the  man  en- 
tered. 

"  James,"  said  his  mistress, "  bring  me  a  lighted  taper." 

AVhcn  it  came,  she  deliberately  unsealed  the  letter,  tore 
it  into  long  strips,  and  burned  each  of  them  separately. 
Eleanor  stood,  and  dared  not  utter  a  word.  There  was 
such  iron  sternness — such  implacable,  calm  determination 
■ — in  that  rigid  face,  that  she  was  terrified  into  silence.  She 
saw  the  words  which  Philip's  dear  hand  had  traced  con- 
sumed to  ashes,  and  oftered  no  opposition.  Then  Mrs. 
Breynton  advanced,  and  touched  the  girl's  forehead  with 
her  cold,  aged  lips. 

"Eleanor  Ogilvie,  you  shall  be  my  daughter  if  you  Avill 
In  you  I  have  nothing  to  forgive — much  to  pity.     I  take 
you  as  my  child — my  only  one.     But  as  respects  this" — • 
she  pointed  to  the  little  heap  of  burnt  paper — "  or  its  writ- 
er, the  subject  must  never  more  be  revived  between  us." 

She  walked  out  of  the  room  witli  her  own  firm,  stately 
steps,  her  silks  rustling  on  the  staircase  as  she  ascended 
slowly — but  not  more  slowly  than  usual — to  her  chamber, 
and  then  Eleanor  heard  the  door  shut.  Upon  what  strug- 
gles it  closed — or  if  there  were  any  conflict  at  all — no  one 


128  TUE    OGILVIES. 

knew,  Tliat  day,  and  for  a  day  or  two  after,  there  was  a 
grayer  shade  on  tlie  cheek  ah-eady  pallid  with  age,  and 
once  or  twice,  in  reading  the  evening  prayers,  the  cold, 
steady  voice  changed  for  a  moment.  But  in  a  w^eek  the 
Dean's  widow  was  the  same  as  she  liad  ever  been,  and  all 
went  on  at  the  palace  as  though  Philip's  name  had  never 
been  heard. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Autiiorship  is,  according  to  the  spirit  in  whicli  it  is  pursued,  an  infamy, 
a  pastime,  a  day-labor,  a  liandicraft,  an  art,  a  science,  a  virtue. — Schlegel. 

Take  away  the  self-conceited,  and  there  will  be  elbow-room  in  the  world. 
— Whichcote. 

Mr.  Pierce  Pennytiiorne  was  what  the  world  respect- 
fully terras  a  "  very  clever  man."  The  world  nnderstands 
"cleverness"  thoroughly,  and  venerates  it  accordingly-, 
though  it  often  scoffs  at  genius.  Perhaps  on  the  same 
principle  the  Cockney  who  gazes  in  admiration  on  the 
stone-built  fabric  of  St.  Paul's  turns  away  contemptuously 
from  some  grand  lonely  mountain  of  nature's  making,  and 
thinks  it  is  not  so  very  fine  after  all.  He  can  not  measure 
its  inches;  he  does  not  understand  it.  He  had  rather  by 
half  look  up  from  his  city  dwelling  at  the  gilt  cross  and 
ball. 

Now  Mr.  Pennythorne  Avas  exactly  the  man  to  attract 
and  keep  this  sort  of  admiration.  In  whatever  sphere  he 
moved — and  he  had  moved  in  many  and  various  ones  dur- 
ing his  sixty  years  of  life — he  was  always  sure  to  get  the 
pre-eminence.  His  acute,  decisive  character  impressed  or- 
dinary people  with  reverence,  and  his  tact  and  quickness 
of  judgment  had  enabled  him  to  compel  from  the  small 
modicum  of  talent  which  he  possessed  the  reputation  of 
being  a  literary  star  of  considerable  magnitude. 

For,  after  passing  through  various  phases  of  life,  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne had  finally  subsided  into  literature.  He  took  to 
writing  as  another  man  would  take  to  bricklayino- — con' 
eidering  that 


THE    OGILVIES.  129 

The  worth  of  any  thing 
Is  just  as  much  as  it  will  bring. 

And  as  literature  brought  him  in  some  hundreds  a  year,  and 
maintained  respectably  the  house  in  Blank  Square,  Ken- 
sington, together  with  Mrs.  Peunythorne  and  two  young 
Pennythornes,  he  regarded  it  as  a  useful  instrument  of  la- 
bor, and  valued  it  accordingly.  His  was  a  most  convenient 
pen,  too — a  pen  of  all-work.  It  would  write  for  any  body, 
on  any  subject,  in  any  style — always  excepting  that  ofim- 
ao-inative  literature,  in  which  road  it  had  never  been  known 
to  travel.  But  this,  as  its  owner  doubtless  believed,  was 
only  because  it  did  not  choose,  as  such  writing  was  all 
trash,  and  never  paid. 

Such  was  Mr.  Peunythorne  abroad ;  at  home  he  carried 
out  the  same  character,  slightly  varied.  He  was,  so  to 
speak,  the  most  excellent  of  tyrants ;  his  sway  was  abso- 
lute, but  he  used  it  well.  No  one  could  say  that  he  was 
not  as  good  a  husband  and  father  as  ever  lived — that  is,  as 
far  as  outward  treatment  went.  Throughout  some  thirty 
years  of  matrimony,  he  and  his  quiet,  good-natured,  meek- 
spirited  wife  had  never  had  a  quarrel ;  and  he  had  brouglit 
up  his  children  to  be  creditable  members  of  society.  His 
system  was  that  of  blind  obedience.  Nevertheless,  both 
wife  and  children  were  aifectionately  inclined  toward  him 
— for  some  people  are  happiest  in  being  thus  ruled ;  it  takes 
away  so  much  moral  resjDonsibility.  Sympathy  in  feeling 
or  in  intellect  was  unknown  in  the  Peunythorne  family ; 
they  did  not  believe  there  was  such  a  thing,  and  so  they 
lived  a  comfortable  humdrum  life,  conscious  of  no  higher 
existence.  Doubtless  they  were  quite  happy — and  so  are 
oysters!  Still,  the  most  world -tossed,  world -riven  spirit 
that  ever  passed  through  its  fire-ordeal  of  love,  genius,  and 
suffering,  would  hardly  wish  to  cliange  with  these  human 
molluscs. 

Mr.  Peunythorne,  after  dinner,  in  his  little  study,  with  the 
blazing  fire  shining  on  its  well-peopled  book-shelves  and 
convenient  old-fashioned  desk,  was  the  very  picture  of  a 
man  of  letters  comfortably  off  in  the  world.     He  had  en« 


130  THE    OCilLVIES. 

sconced  in  the  only  arm-chair  whicli  the  room  possessed 
liis  small  wiry  frame — for  Mr.  Pennythorne  shared  with 
Alexander,  Napoleon,  and  other  great  minds  the  glory  of  a 
diminutive  person.  As  he  sat  reading  the  newspaper,  with 
his  back  to  the  lamp,  the  light  cast  into  strong  relief  his 
sharp,  well-marked  features.  It  Avas  not  an  intellectual 
head,  still  less  a  benevolent  one;  but  there  were  wonder- 
ful cleverness  and  shrewdness  in  its  every  line.  The  firm, 
closed  mouth  could  sometimes  relax  into  a  very  good-na- 
tured smile;  and  a  great  deal  of  dry  satirical  humor  lay 
perdu  among  the  wrinkles — politely  termed  crow's  feet — • 
that  surrounded  the  small,  bright  gray  eyes. 

The  postman's  sharp  knock  made  the  little  man  start ; 
for,  with  all  his  mental  self-^jossession,  he  had  much  phys- 
ical nervousness.  At  the  same  time,  his  quick  movement 
revealed  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  who  sat  in  the 
shadow,  with  a  half-knitted  stocking  on  her  lap.  Her  hus- 
band always  liked  her  to  be  near  him  after  his  daily  occu- 
pation was  over.  Not  that  he  wanted  conversation ;  for 
to  that  Mr.  Pennythorne  thought  no  woman  equal,  and  per- 
haps the  secret  of  his  regard  for  his  Avife  Avas  her  abstinence 
from  all  intellectual  rivalship.  Good  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  in- 
deed, had  never  been  burdened  Avith  that  ambition.  But 
the  sight  of  her  quiet,  gentle,  and  still  pretty  face  Avas  com- 
posing to  him  ;  and  she  let  him  talk  as  mncli  or  as  little  as 
he  liked — said  "  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  or  "  Certainl}^  my  dear" — 
and  Avhen  he  had  done,  went  to  sleep.  They  were  exactly 
suited  for  each  other,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 

She  received  the  letter  at  the  door— it  annoyed  him  to 
see  any  one  but  herself  in  his  study — and  Avhile  he  read  it 
she  took  the  opportunity  of  being  thoroughly  awakened, 
to  go  through  the  serious  operation  Avhich  stocking-knit- 
ters denominate  "turning  down  the  heel."  Once  or  twice 
she  lifted  up  her  eyes  at  a  fcAV  exclamations  from  her  hus- 
band— "Bless  me!"  "How  very  odd!"  etc.  But  she  had 
been  too  Avell  trained  to  inquire  of  him  about  any  thing 
which  he  did  not  in  due  form  communicate.  So  she  Avaited 
until  he  delivered  himself  thus; 


THE    OGILVIES.  131 

"  Cillie,  my  dear" — Mrs.  Pennythoriie's  Christian  naniG 
was  Cecilia,  wiiich,  by  a  huraorous  ingenuity,  he  had  con- 
verted into  this  odd  diminutive  —  a  somewhat  doubtful 
compliment — "  Cillie,  my  dear,  this  is  a  very  curious  cir- 
cumstance." 

"  Is  it,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Penny  thorne,  not  interrogative- 
ly, but  assentingly.  Her  husband  always  expected  to  be 
understood  at  once,  without  any  explanation,  so  she  never 
dreamed  of  inquiring  to  what  circumstance  he  alluded. 

"  You  remember  my  old  college  friend,  Edwin  Wychnor 
— Captain  Wychnor  he  was  then — who  dined  with  us  at 
Sittingbourne — ten — let  me  see — fifteen  years  ago  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  Mi's.  Pennythorne  made  a  point  of  remem- 
bering every  thing,  as  nothing  vexed  her  spouse  so  mu(  h 
as  the  confession  of  ignorance  on  any  point  to  which  liis 
own  retentive  memory  chose  to  turn. 

"There  was  another  Oxford  man  with  us  that  day,  you 
know — Bourne— Dr.  Bourne  now — who  dropped  into  the 
living  that  Wychnor  gave  up — like  a  foolish  fellow  as  he 
was!  Well,  this  letter  comes  fi'om  him;  not  from  Wych- 
nor, or  it  would  be  a  dead  letter."  (Pennythorne's  conver- 
sation Avas  usually  studded  with  execrable  jokes,  made 
comical  l)y  tlie  solemnity  with  which  they  were  put  for- 
ward.) "  It  is  Irom  Bourne,  introducing  to  me  the  defunct 
captain's  only  son,  who  has  gone  and  played  the  same  mad- 
cap trick  as  his  father.  He  wants  me  to  get  the  lad  that 
very  easy  thing  nowadays, '  employment  in  London.'  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  surely  nobody  can  do  that  so  well  as 
you,"  meekly  observed  his  wife. 

"Pooh!  you  are  only  a  woman;  you  don't  know  any 
thing  at  all  about  it.  Pretty  fellows  to  deal  with  are  these 
college  youths,  with  heads  more  full  of  pride  than  of  brains 
— can't  do  this  because  they  haven't  been  brought  up  to  it, 
and  won't  do  the  other  because  it  isn't  gentlemanl}^  I 
suppose  this  young  Peter,  or  Paul,  or  Jeremiah — he  has  got 
that  sort  of  a  name — will  turn  out  just  such  another  upon 
my  hands.  But  that  is  always  the  way;  every  body  brings 
stray  sheep  to  me — very  black  sheep  they  are  too,  some* 
times." 


132  THE    OGILVIES. 

Mrs.  Pennythonie  laughed,  thinking  from  her  husband'a 
look  that  he  had  said  something  funny  ;  she  always  did  so, 
like  a  dutiful  wife,  whether  she  understood  it  or  not.  "And 
I  am  sure,  Pierce,  you  have  helped  a  great  many  young 
men  on  in  the  world.  There  was  young  Phillips,  and 
O'Mahony  the  Irishman,  and  Edward  Jones." 

"  And  a  nice,  ungrateful  set  they  all  turned  out !"  said 
Mr.  Penny thorne,  though  a  self-complacent  smile  rather 
contradicted  his  words.  There  was  nothing  in  the  Avorld 
that  he  liked  so  well  as  patronizing.  Not  that  he  confined 
himself  to  the  show  of  benevolence,  for  he  was  a  good-na- 
tured man,  and  had  done  many  kindly  acts  in  his  time  ;  hut 
they  had  all  been  done  with  due  im})ortauce.  His  p^'ote^es 
— and  he  always  had  a  long  train  of  them — were  required 
implicitly  to  trust  to  him,  to  follow  his  bidding,  and  to  re- 
ceive his  advice.  He  never  asked  for  gratitude,  but  yet  he 
always  contrived  to  rail  at  the  Avorld  because  he  did  not 
receive  it.  Still,  with  all  his  peculiarities,  Mr.  Pennythoi-ne 
did  a  great  deal  of  good  in  his  way — and  rather  liked  the 
doing  of  it  too,  though  he  said  he  didn't. 

"Cillic,"he  observed,  just  as  the  summons  came  to  ten, 
"  I  suppose  this  young  Wychnor  must  dine  hei-e  next  Sun- 
day. Take  care  that  Fred  is  not  out  of  the  way,  and  that 
that  foolish  fellow  Leigh  is  not  keeping  his  bed,  as  he  is  so 
often.  What's  the  good  of  sons  if  you  don't  make  use  of 
them?  And  an  old  fellow  like  me  can't  be  bothered  to 
entertain  a  young  Oxford  scamp  for  a  whole  afternoon." 

The  same  sharp  postman's  knock — oh,  what  a  volume  of 
life-experiences  might  that  sound  suggest,  could  we  follow 
it  from  door  to  door  ! — bi-ought  to  Philip  Wychnor,  in  his 
dull  second-floor  lodging,  the  following  letter: 

"My  dear  yotjng  Fkiend,— I  had  a  great  regard  for 
your  late  father,  and  shall  have  the  same  for  you  if  you  de- 
serve it,  of  which  I  have  little  doubt.  I  will  also  do  my 
best  to  help  you  on  in  the  world.  To  begin  our  acquaint- 
ance, perhaps  yon  will  dine  at  my  house  next  Sunday — at 
six.  Faithfully  yours,        Pierce  Pennythorne." 


THE    OGILVIES.  133 

It  was  an  odd,  abrupt  letter,  but  Philip  had  already  lieard 
that  the  writer  was  not  witliout  his  eccentricities.  He  was 
growing  so  desolate  and  cheerless  in  his  London  home  that 
the  least  ray  of  kindness  came  upon  him  like  a  flood  of  light. 
He  drank  his  cup  of  weak  cold  tea  with  almost  the  zest  of 
those  i-emembered  days  when  Eleanor's  dear  sunny  face  had 
shone  from  behind  the  nrn  in  the  happy  palace  drawing- 
room.  Then  he  went  out,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
gloomy  squares  in  the  neighborhood  of  which  his  lodgings 
lay.  And  surely  the  dreariest  place  in  all  London  is  the 
region  between  Brunswick  Square  and  Tottenham  Court- 
road!  There  solemn  wealth  sets  up  its  abode,  and  strug- 
gling respectability  tries  to  creep  under  its  shadow  hi 
many  a  dull,  melancholy  street,  while  squalid  poverty  grov- 
els in  between,  with  its  miserable  courts  and  alleys,  that 
make  the  sick  .and  weary  heart  to  doubt  even  the  existence 
of  good. 

Philip  sauntered  along;  but,  viewed  in  the  light  of  this 
new  hope  of  his,  the  squares  did  not  seem  so  desolate  as 
they  had  done  the  evening  before.  Through  the  misty 
night  the  lamps  glimmered  faintly;  after  a  while  the  moon 
rose — and  the  moon  looks  pleasant  to  young  eyes,  especial- 
ly the  eyes  of  lovers,  even  in  the  desert  of  Russell  Square. 
Moreover,  as  Philip  Avalked  along  the  inner  side,  there  was 
a  freshness  almost  like  perfume  in  the  budding  trees,  over 
which  an  April  shower  had  just  passed.  It  came  ujoon  his 
senses  like  the  breathing  of  hope.  He  stopped  under  the 
nearest  lamp,  took  out  Mr.  Peimythorne's  letter,  and  read 
it  over  again. 

"Well,  it  does  seem  kind,  and  may  be  the  beginning  of 
good.  Who  knows  but  I  have  put  my  first  step  on  For- 
tune's ladder  to-night  ?" 

Ah  !  Philip,  that  ladder  is  of  all  others  the  hardest  to 
climb.  But  you  have  a  steady  foot  and  a  strong  heart — 
all  the  stronger  for  having  that  precious  love-amulet  in  its 
inmost  folds.  In  spite  of  all  the  gray-headed  reasoners, 
there  never  was  a  young  man  yet  who  did  not  work  his 
way  in  the  world  the  better  for  having  some  one  to  work 
for  besides  himself. 


134  THE    OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  XVIIT. 

Wives  seem  created  to  be  butts.  Many  a  man  now,  like  Pan,  plays 
upon  that  which  was  formerly  the  object  of  his  fond  pursuit. — Edward 
West. 

Miin  alone, 
The  recieant  spirit  of  tlie  nniverse. 
Contemns  the  operations  of  the  light ; 
Loves  surface-knowledge— calls  the  crimes  of  crowds 
Virtue — adores  the  usefid  vices.     *     *     * 

Therefore 
I  will  commit  my  brain  to  none  of  them. — PHiLir  Baii.et. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you — exceedingly  glad  to  see  you,  luy 
young  friend,"  was  the  greeting  that  marked  Philip's  first 
entrance  into  the  drawing-room  at  Blank  Square — we  pre- 
fer that  rather  doubtful  way  of  designating  the  Penny- 
thorne  abode.  "Punctuality  is  a  virtue,  especially  on  a 
wet  Sunday;  I  like  to  see  young  people  keep  time  well, 
and  then,  as  they  grow  older,  time  always  keeps  them— 
eh,  sir  ?" 

Philip  smiled  ;  he  was  really  amused  at  the  oddities  of 
the  little  man.  He  could  do  no  more  than  smile  silently, 
for  it  was  impossible  to  get  in  a  word. 

"Cecilia,  my  dear,"  and  Mr.  Pennythorne,  with  a  sort  of 
hop,  skip,  and  jump  movement — his  usual  method  of  prog- 
ress in  the  house — arrived  at  the  sofa  where  his  lady  sat  ii> 
all  the  unruffled  serenities  of  a  Sunday  silk,  a  Sunday  cap, 
and  a  Sunday  face.  She  had  a  ponderous-looking  volume 
beside  lier,  of  Sermons,  or  Fox's  Martyrs;  for,  though  the 
Pennythornes  so  far  conformed  to  the  world  as  to  have 
company  on  a  Sunday,  they  were  "a  religious  family;" 
and  if  the  cook  was  beguiled  out  of  her  sole  day  of  rest  by 
having  to  prepare  a  first-rate  dinner,  it  was  atoned  for  by 
the  mistress's  always  reading  good  books  up  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, 

"  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Pen- 


THE    OGILVIES.  135 

nythorne — my  wife,  sir;  an  ugly  old  woman,  isn't  she?  but 
then  she's  so  clever — there  is  not  a  cleverer  woman  ia  all 
London  than  Mrs.  Pennythorne." 

Philip  looked  at  the  pretty  but  most  inane  face  of  the 
lady,  and  then  at  her  husband,  who  spoke  with  such  gravi- 
ty that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  distinguish  jest  from 
earnest.  Fairly  puzzled  between  them,  the  young  man  ut- 
tered some  ordinary  politeness,  and  accepted  the  ottered 
seat  beside  his  hostess. 

"There,  you  can  begin  your  acquaintance  with  that  ex- 
cellent woman,"  said  Mr.  Pennythcn-ne  ;  "but  take  care  of 
lier ;  you  don't  kiiow  how  sharp  lier  tongue  is — real  ar- 
rows, sir — regular  darts  of  wit :  mind  they  don't  hit  you  !" 

Philip  thought  it  rather  unseemly  that  a  man  should 
make  game  of  his  wife  in  jniblic,  and  began  to  feel  some- 
what uncomfortable.  But  Mrs.  Penny  thoi'ne  herself  seem- 
ed quite  unmoved,  smiling  on  in  placid  contentment.  She 
had  got  used  to  this  sort  of  banter,  or  else,  which  was 
most  likely,  she  did  not  feel  it  at  all.  Some  i)eo])le  are 
very  feather-beds  of  stolidity,  impenetrable  to  the  sharpest 
tongue-weapons  that  sarcasm  ever  forged.  Philip  soon 
grew  quite  reassured  on  the  subject.  He  tried  to  engage 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  in  conversation,  but  did  not  succeed  in 
getting  beyond  the  wetness  of  the  day  and  the  unpleasant- 
ness of  the  Kensington  omnibuses.  She  was  as  shy  and 
nervous  as  a  girl  of  sixteen,  constantly  looking  to  her  hus- 
band, as  if  she  had  hardly  a  thought  of  lier  own.  Still, 
there  Avas  a  degree  of  quiet  womanliness  about  lier.  She 
liad  a  low  voice,  and  her  brown  eyes  were  of  the  same  col- 
or as  Eleanor's.  I'hilip  felt  rather  a  liking  to  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne. 

"  Where  can  the  boys  be  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
becoming  fidgety,  and  rushing  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"  Fred  !  Leigh  !"' 

The  next  minute  the  "  boys"  appeared.  Mr.  Frederick 
Pennythorne  was  about  twenty-five ;  a  specimen  of  that 
stereotyped  class  of  young  men  with  which  London  birtli 
and  London  breeding  indulge  the  world.     Slight,  dappei, 


136  THE    OGILVIES. 

active ;  not  ill-looking,  and  carefully  dressed ;  always  ready 
for  polkas,  small-talk,  and  cigars;  too  resjjectable  for  a 
gent  (odious  Avord  !),  too  ordinary  and  vulgar-minded  for  a 
gentleman,  and  far — oh  !  iar  too  mean  in  heart  and  soul  for 
the  noble  title  of  a  man  ! 

This  individual  scanned  Philij)  all  over,  and  nodded  his 
head  with  a  careless  "  Ilow-d'ye-do."  Then  catching  his 
father's  eye,  Mr.  Frederick  composed  his  features  into  an 
aspect  of  grave  deference. 

"  My  son,  this — my  eldest  son.  Excellent  fellow  to  show 
you  all  the  wickedness  of  London,  Mr.  Wychnor.  I  don't 
suppose  there's  a  greater  scamp  any  wdiere  than  Fred  Peu- 
nythorne." 

The  old  gentleman  did  not  know  how  nearly  he  hit  the 
truth — but  somehow  or  other  the  person  alluded  to  winced 
slightl}^  under  the  unintentional  application. 

"  Really,  father ! — But  you'll  find  out  his  ways  soon,  Mr. 
Wychnor,"  said  Fred,  apologetically. 

"  Wliere's  Leigh  ?"  continued  that  indefatigable  parent, 
Avho  seemed  to  have  as  much  difficulty  in  hunting  up  his 
family  as  a  mechanist  has  in  winding  ujj  his  automata  and 
setting  them  fairly  going. 

A  tall,  thin  youth  of  about  seventeen  crept  languidly 
from  behind  the  folding  doors.  Philip  looked  rather  ear- 
nestly at  the  sallow,  long-drawn-out  face,  and  meaningless, 
half-closed  e3^es.  Perhaps  in  the  look  there  Avas  somewhat 
of  interest  and  compassion,  for  the  boy  involuntarily  put 
out  his  hand,  and  just  touched  Philij^'s  with  his  cold,  moist 
fingers.  The  heavy  eyes  lifted  themselves  up  for  a  mo- 
ment. They  were  brown,  like  his  mother's,  but  far  deej)er 
and  softer ;  and  as  they  met  Philip's,  one  passing  gleam  of 
expression  lighted  them  up.  It  drew  the  young  man's 
heart  toward  the  sickly,  awkward-looking  Leigh. 

"I  hope  we  shall  be  very  good  friends  in  time,"  said 
Philip  Wychnor,  shaking  the  boy's  hand  warmly. 

"  That  is  more  than  any  one  else  ever  was  with  our  cross- 
grained  Leigh  !  Long,  lazy  Leigh,  as  I  call  him — the  great- 
est dunce  in  the  universe,  except  for  a  little  Greek,  Latin, 


THE    OGILVIES.  137 

and  Hebrew  wliicli  I  contrive  to  knock  into  him,"  interposed 
the  father,  who  seemed  to  take  delight  in  sketching,  en paS' 
saut^  these  complimentary  family  portraits. 

Philip  turned  round  uneasily  to  Leigh,  but  the  youth  sat 
in  ]iis  old  corner  quite  impassive.  The  dull  melancholy  of 
his  face  was  as  uuimj^ressible  as  his  mother's  vacant  and 
perpetual  smile. 

"  Well,  they  are  the  oddest  family  I  ever  knew,"  thought 
Philip  Wychnor.  "Perhaps  your  son  is  not  strong  enough 
for  much  study?"  he  said  aloud. 

"Quite  a  mistake,  my  good  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne,  sharply.  "  All  my  family  enjoy  excellent  health. 
I  can't  bear  to  have  sick  people  about  me.  That  fellow- 
there  looks  yellow  because  he  lies  in  bed  sadly  too  much; 
and  besides,  it  is  his  temperament,  his  natural  complexion. 
Pray  do  not  put  such  notions  into  the  lad's  head,  Mr.  Wych- 
nor." 

The  guest  felt  that  he  had  unconsciously  trodden  on  dan- 
gerous ground ;  and  it  was  really  a  relief  when  the  appari- 
tion of  a  very  tall  maid-servant  at  the  door  gave  the  signal 
for  dinner. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  was  tlie  best  person  in  the  world  for 
the  head  of  a  table — his  own  especially ;  for  he  had  an  un- 
failing flow  of  talk  and  abundance  of  small  Avitticisms.  To 
use  a  simile  on  the  originality  of  which  we  have  some  doubt 
■ — but  which,  not  knowing  the  right  owner,  we  shall  a])pro- 
priate — he  kept  the  ball  of  conversation  constantly  in  mo- 
tion. However,  to  attain  this  desirable  end,  he  rarely  let 
it  go  out  of  his  own  hands.  Perhaps  this  was  as  well,  for 
the  rest  of  his  family  seemed  incapable  of  a  throw.  So  he 
very  wisely  never  gave  them  the  opportunity. 

Once  or  twice  Fred  Pennythoruc  hazarded  a  remark — 
or,  as  he  would  liave  expressed  it,  "  put  out  a  feeler" — 
thereby  to  discover  the  habits,  manners,  and  character  of 
the  "fellow  from  the  country ;"  but  he  was  soon  extinguish- 
ed by  a  few  paternal  sneers.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  also,  ven- 
turing to  reply  in  more  than  monosyllables  to  some  obser- 
vation of  Philip's,  was  regarded  with  such  mock-deferential 


138  THE    OGILVIES. 

attention  by  her  lord  and  master  that  slie  relapsed  into 
alarmed  and  inviolable  silence.  As  for  Leigh,  lie  never 
tried  to  speak  at  all.  When,  soon  after  the  introduction  of 
wine  and  walnuts,  Mrs.  Pcnnythorne  disappeared,  he  quick- 
ly followed  his  mother,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Then  Mr.  Pennythorne  edified  Philip  for  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  on  many  and  various  subjects,  chiefly  political. 
Fortunately,  Wychnor  was  no  great  talker,  and  of  a  quiet, 
yielding  temper,  so  that  the  dictatorial  tone  of  his  host  did 
not  annoy  him  in  the  least.  l*erhaps  he  only  listened  with 
his  outward  ears,  while  his  thoughts,  like  liches — and  Phil- 
ip's thoughts  were  riches  to  him — made  to  themselves  wings 
and  flew  far  away. 

"Fred!  yon  stupid  fellow,"  called  out  3Ir.  Pennythorne, 
at  last. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  individual  addressed,  Avaking 
from  a  doze  by  the  fire. 

"Your  conversation  is  so  remarkably  amusing  and  in- 
structive that  it  is  quite  too  overpowering  for  such  addle- 
pates  as  this  gentleman  and  myself  We  will  therefore  in- 
dulge ourselves  in  a  tete-a-tde  dull  enough  for  our  limited 
capabilities.  You  may  go  and  tell  your  mother  to  make 
the  tea:  I  dare  say  cook  will  lend  you  tlie  toasting-fork, 
that  you  may  make  yourself  useful  in  the  kitchen,  at  least." 

Tlie  young  dandy  muttered  a  gruml)ling  remonstrance, 
but  finished  his  wine  and  walked  off.  It  was  really  curi- 
ous, the  complete  ascendency  which  this  eccentric  father 
of  a  family  had  gained  and  preserved  over  all  its  members. 

"Excellent  boy  that,"  said  Mr.  Pennythorne  when  the 
door  closed ;  and  Philip  noticed  how  entirely  liis  sarcastic 
manner  Avas  changed;  "Fred  is  a  rising  young  man,  sir; 
no  profession  like  that  of  a  lawyer  for  making  a  fortune — 
at  least  in  these  railway  times.  That  lad  w  ill  I'ide  in  his 
carriage  yet." 

"Indeed,  I  hope  so,"  Philip  observed,  seeing  that  an  ob- 
servation was  expected. 

"Certainly.  The  Pennythornes,  sir,  always  make  their 
way  in  the  world.     Xow  there's  Leigh — quiet  boy — very 


THE    OGILVIES.  139 

quiet,  but  thinks  the  more  for  that.  His  knowledge  of 
classics  is  wonderful.  I  shall  make  him  a  first-rate  man 
for  Oxford.  By-the-by,  you,  who  have  just  left  Alma  Ma- 
ter, might  give  him  a  help  now  and  then  when  I  am  too 
busy  myself" 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy." 

"  Of  course — of  course.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Wychnor.  And 
now  tell  me  in  what  way  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

The  little  man  leaned  over  the  table,  and  confronted 
Philip  with  his  peering  gray  eyes.  All  his  jesting  manner 
was  gone,  and  there  was  a  straightforward,  business-like 
earnestness,  which  his  guest  liked  much  better  and  felt  in- 
finitely more  disposed  to  trust.  Philip  briefly  stated  that, 
having  suddenly  relinquished  the  Church,  he  was  without 
resources,  and  wished  to  earn  a  livelihood  in  any  respecta- 
ble way  for  which  his  education  might  fit  him. 

"  Now,  my  young  friend,  what  do  you  call  a  '  resj^ectable 
way  ?' "  said  Mr.  Pennythorne. 

Philip  was  rather  confused,  but  answered,  "Any  Aonesi 
way,  of  which  a  gentleman's  son  need  not  feel  ashamed. 
Surely  the  world  is  wide  enough  for  one  more  to  get  his 
bread — if  not  by  his  hands,  at  least  by  his  brains — of  which 
I  hope  I  have  a  share." 

"  No  doubt — no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Pennythorne ;  "  but 
let  us  see  how  you  are  to  use  them.  Authorshi])  is  not  a 
bad  profession.     Suppose  you  take  to  that  ?" 

Philip  looked  somewhat  astonished.  "My  dear  sir,  I 
never  wrote  any  thing  in  my  life.     I  have  no  genius  !" 

"  Genius,  my  excellent  young  friend,  between  ourselves, 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  It  is  a  commodity 
rather  unpleasant  than  otherwise.  A  man's  genius  gener^ 
ally  ends  in  making  a  fool  of  him— or  a  beggar,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing.  The  best  authors,  and  those 
who  have  made  most  money,  have  had  no  genius  at  all. 
With  plenty  of  diligence  and  a  good  connection,  a  clever 
author  may  get  a  very  good  living,  while  the  poor  devila 
called  men  of  genius — a  term  for  unusual  flightiness  and 
conceit — lie  down  and  starve." 

G 


1-iO  THK    OGILVIES, 

Philip  listened  to  this  speech,  first  in  surprise,  then  in 
pain.  He  had  spoken  truly — at  least  as  he  then  believed 
— when  he  said  he  had  no  genius  ;  but  genius  itself  he  wor- 
shij^ed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  So  utterly  con- 
founded was  he  by  this  argument  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's, 
that  he  did  not  reply  by  a  single  word ;  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman continued : 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor,  that  I  have  spoken  plain- 
ly to  you,  as  I  would  not  to  every  one  ;  but  I  like  your  face, 
and,  moreover,  you  are  your  father's  son.  If  you  choose  to 
try  your  hand  at  authorship,  I  will  endeavor  to  procure 
you  work.  It  shall  be  easy  at  first,  and  you  can  get  on 
by  degrees." 

But  Philip  shook  his  head.  "  Xo,  Mr.  Pennythorne,  I 
feel  too  certain  of  my  own  incapacity ;  and  literature  has 
always  seemed  to  me  so  high  and  holy  a  calling." 

At  this  moment  the  young  man  met  the  upturned  face 
of  his  host — the  cold,  cautious  eyes  w^atching  him  with  a 
look  something  betw^een  wonder  and  curiosity,  and  the 
sarcastic  mouth  bent  into  the  most  contemptuous  of  polite 
sneers.  Now  it  was  one  of  Philip's  weaknesses  that  his 
sensitive  and  reserved  disj^osition  was  ever  painfully  alive 
to  ridicule.  As  before  said,  he  was  by  no  means  one  of 
your  model  heroes,  who  are  ever  ready  to  "  stand  fire,"  ei- 
ther physically  or  morally,  and  so  it  happened  that  this 
look  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's  just  sufficed  to  drive  back  all 
his  warm  impulses.  He  forgot  what  he  was  about  to  say, 
stopped,  and  his  delicate  cheek  changed  color  like  a  girl's. 

"  Pray  go  on,"  said  the  host. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  except 
that  I  feel  obliged  for  your  kindness;  but,  not  thinking 
myself  competent  to  do  credit  to  authorship,  I  had  rathe/ 
not  attempt  it."  Thereby  he  lost  an  excellent  chance  of 
"  testifying  to  the  truth,"  and  will  doubtless  sink  very 
much  in  the  estimation  of  all  who  w^ould  have  virtue  and 
genius  continually  appear  in  the  character  of  public  lec- 
turers. But  Philip  Wychnor  w\as  so  reserved  and  humble- 
minded,  that  as  yet  he  was  unaware  of  half  the  treasures 
of  his  intellect. 


THE    OGILVIES.  141 

Yet,  though  he  could  not  fathom  the  depths  of  his  own 
mind,  he  could  see  a  good  way  into  Mr.  PeiinythoiiieV,  and 
the  siglit  was  both  painful  and  discouraging.  The  conver- 
sation  went  on,  and  Philip  listened  with  tlie  deference  tliat 
his  companion's  age  and  character  demanded;  but  tliere 
was  a  disagreeable  sense  of  uncongeniality,  almost  amount- 
ing to  distrust,  in  the  young  man's  mind. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  did  not  notice  this  in  the  least ;  for  his 
perception,  though  acute,  was  by  no  means  delicate.  He 
talked  fast  and  freely,  not  to  say  ostentatiously,  of  his  in- 
fluence in  other  quarters — discussed  the  various  duties  and 
advantages  of  employment  as  banker's  clerk,  merchant's 
clerk,  railway  clerk,  and  Philip's  capacity  for  the  same,  un- 
til his  young  auditor  grew  half  bewildered  and  wholly  dis- 
consolate. At  last  it  was  agreed  that,  as  Wychnor  had  a 
little  money  for  the  present,  he  should  stay  in  lodgings,  and 
enter  on  the  weary  life  of  "waiting  for  a  situation."  This  in- 
terregnum Avould  not  last  long,  Mr.  Pennythorne  was  cer- 
tain;  and,  indeed,  from  his  conversation,  he  seemed  able  to 
scatter  appointments  abroad  as  thick  as  leaves  in  autumn. 

"  Now,  my  young  friend" — Mr.  Pennythorne  had  such  a 
host  o^  young  friends  on  his  list — "excuse  my  making  you 
one  of  the  family,  and  sending  you  up  stairs  while  I  take 
a  nap.  Old  people  must  be  humored,  you  know.  You  will 
find  the  bovs  in  the  drawing-room." 

Philip  was  not  sorry  to  receive  tliis  som.ewhat  unceremo- 
nious conge.  As  he  stood  alone  on  the  stairs,  he  tried  te 
collect  his  thoughts  and  to  struggle  with  a  vaffue  feellno- 
of  discomfort. 

"This  is  very  foolish  of  me!"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  shall 
not  get  every  one  in  the  world  to  think  and  feel  exactly 
as  I  do  :  how  could  I  expect  it  ?  Mr.  Pennythorne  seems 
a  very  good  sort  of  man — kind,  too,  in  his  own  way :  he 
will  most  likely  do  something  for  me ;  and  then,  once  get- 
ting a  start  in  life,  I  have  my  fortune  in  my  own  hands — • 
that  is,  with  heaven's  blessing."  And  the  one  reverent  as- 
piration of  that  young  pious  spirit  calmed  its  jarring  doubt*' 
into  patient  hope. 


142  THE    OGILYIES, 

"  Still,"  thought  Phili]^,  when,  after  a  prosy  evening  and 
a  walk  of  three  miles,  he  laid  his  tii-ed  liead  on  his  rather 
hard  pillow  just  as  St.Pancras's  clock  was  striking  twelve 
— "still, I  am  rather  glad  that  Mr.  Pennythorne  did  not  ask 
my  reasons  for  giving  up  the  Church:  he  would  not  have 
understood  them  any  more  than  Aunt  Brej^nton.  I  don't 
think  any  body  does  quite  understand  me  except  Eleanor." 

And  with  that  dear  name  on  his  lips  and  in  his  heart, 
Philip  Wychnor  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"What  is  there  that  I  slioukl  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 
Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors  ;   all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  au  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

Tennysos 
Keep  thy  spirit  pure 
From  worldly  taint  by  the  repellent  strength 
Of  virtue.         *         *         * 

Walk 
Boldly  and  wisely  in  th.e  light  thou  hast : 
There  is  a  Hand  above  will  help  thee  on. 

Thilip  Bailey. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  life  more  utterly  dull  and 
dreary  than  that  of  a  young  man  living  alone  in  London, 
with  few  friends,  with  no  pursuit  to  occupy  his  time,  and 
with  no  money  to  allure  him  into  agreeable  or  vicious  ways 
of  killing  it.  Philip  AVychnor  thought  that  each  week, 
each  day,  grew  longer  and  longer.  He  had  read  through 
and  through  all  the  books  he  had  brought  with  him,  and 
was  unable  to  buy  or  borrow  more.  Then  he  tried  to  "  rub 
up"  his  old  studies  at  Oxford  ;  but  working  without  an  aim 
is  a  thankless  occupation.  His  whole  course  of  life  had 
been  distur])ed,  and  he  could  not  settle  down  again. 

He  grew  tired  of  his  dingy  little  parlor,  whei'e  the  sun 
just  peeped  in  at  early  morning  ;  after  which,  as  though 
disgusted  with  the  place,  it  departed  for  the  day  with  the 
breakfast  things.     So  he  took  to  strolling  about  London, 


THE    OGILVIES.  143 

and  philosophizing  on  human  nature  in  its  citizen  aspect. 
This  soon  made  him  more  heart -weary  still.  He  then 
sought  after  all  the  places  of  amusement  that  were  open 
free.  Fortunately,  among  this  class  London  now  numbers 
some  of  its  highest  and  most  intellectual  feasts.  Philip 
spent  many  an  hour  at  the  British  Museum,  amid  the  quiet 
gloom  of  the  Elgin-room,  until  he  knew  by  sight  all  the 
student  votaries  of  Art  who  seek  to  re-create  a  Theseus  or 
an  Ilyssus  on  their  drawing-boards.  Many  a  long  morn- 
ing, too,  did  he  loiter  in  the  National  Gallery  ;  a  place  that 
looks  always  fresh,  and  pleasant,  and  sunshiny — for  is  there 
not  perpetual  sunshine  with  Guido,  and  Titian,  and  Claude? 
Often  and  often  Philip  entered  with  his  spirit  so  broken 
and  desponding  that  the  May  brightness  and  cheerfulness 
of  the  streets  seemed  only  to  insult  his  lonely  poverty.  He 
knew  nothing  of  Art  save  through  tlie  spell  by  which  its 
glory  and  beauty  must  ever  influence  minds  like  his  own  ; 
but  the  spirit  of  Guido  spoke  peace  to  him  through  the 
mournful-eyed  Magdalene,  or  the  Child  Jesus  with  its  face 
of  pale  purity  gazed  on  by  revei-ent  John  ;  while  o-raud 
and  solemn  loomed  out  of  the  darkness  the  figure  of  Piom- 
bo's  Lazarus,  and  in  Da  Vinci's  Ecce  Homo  the  suftering 
God-man  looked  in  sublime  compassion  on  the  Virgin's 
mother-woe.  Pictures  such  as  these  Philip  loved  best,  for 
in  this  season  of  anxiety  their  sorrowful  and  holy  beauty 
touched  and  soothed  his  spirit. 

And,  turning  for  a  moment  from  our  story  to  the  individ- 
ual memories  which  its  progress  brings,  let  us  linger  in  tlie 
place  whither  we  have  led  Philip  Wychnor;  a  place  so  full 
of  old  associations  that  even  while  thinking  of  it  we  lay 
down  our  pen  and  sigh.  Good,  careless  reader,  mayhap 
you  never  knew  what  it  was  to  lead  a  life  in  which  sorrow 
formed  the  only  change  from  monotony — a  life  so  solitary 
that  dream-companions  alone  people  it ;  nor  how%  looking 
back  on  that  dull  desert  of  time,  one  remembers  lovingly 
the  pleasant  spots  that  brightened  it  here  and  there — how, 
in  traversing  the  old  haunts,  our  feet  linger,  even  while  wo 
contrast  gladly  and  thankfully  the  present  with  the  past ; 


144  THE    OGILVIES. 

else  you  would  not  wonder  that  we  stay  for  a  moment  with 
our  Philip  Wychnor,  walking  in  fancy  from  room  to  room, 
gazing  at  every  well-known  picture,  whose  beautiful  and 
benign  influence  was  so  blessed  to  us  of  old,  and  seeing 
also  living  faces  that  were  once  beside  us  there — some, 
most  dear  of  all  on  earth ;  others,  on  whom  we  shall  never 
more  look  until  we  behold  them  in  heaven. 

Tlie  theme  grows  too  solemn.  Readers — whom  at  times 
every  author  takes  strangely  enough  into  his  heart's  depths, 
as  he  takes  not  even  those  who  sit  at  his  board  and  drink 
of  his  cup — if  you  can  understand  this  digression,  you  will 
forgive  it;  if  not,  pass  it  by. 

Pliilip  Wychnor  had  no  acquaintance  in  London  except 
the  Pennythornes.  He  went  to  Blank  Square  sometimes  by 
invitation,  and  now  and  then  without.  But  he  had  a  great 
belief  in  that  verse  of  the  Proverbs — "Refrain  thy  foot 
from  thy  neighbor's  house,  lest  he  be  weary  of  thee,  and  so 
hate  tliee ;"  therefore  his  visits  always  kept  within  due  lira- 
its.  Still  it  was  undeniable  that  he  took  j^leasure  in  being 
received  v.ith  friendliness  into  this  always  hospitable  house 
— for  hospitality  was  one  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's  virtues. 
True,  the  family  circle  was  somewhat  dull  if  its  head 
chanced  to  be  absent ;  but  then,  in  Philip's  present  state 
of  isolation,  any  family  fireside  Avas  a  welcome  change  from 
the  solitary  dreariness  of  his  own.  So  he  grew  to  take 
pleasure  in  Mrs.  Pennythorne's  meaningless  but  good-tem- 
pered smile,  and  Mr.  Pennythorne's  unfailing  talk — the  very 
ostentatioushess  of  which  was  amusing.  With  the  youn- 
ger members  of  the  household  Philip's  acquaintance  ad- 
vanced little;  for  Frederick  was  rarely  at  home  in  the  even- 
ing, and  Leigh  maintained  the  same  dull,  almost  sullen  si- 
lence. Now  and  then,  when  Pliilip  chanced  to  talk  a  little 
more  earnestly  than  usual,  he  detected  the  large  brown 
eyes  watching  him  with  curious  intentness ;  but  if  lie  re- 
turned the  look  they  fell  at  once,  and  Leigh's  countenance 
relapsed  into  its  customary  stolidity.  Still,  Avhen  Pliilip's 
thoughts  wanted  occupation,  they  sometimes  turned  to 
speculate  on  this  rather  singular  boy. 


THE    OGILVIES,  145 

Alas  for  Philip — he  had  only  too  much  time  for  thinking ; 
and  as  month  after  month  rolled  on,  and  lie  had  still  no  oc- 
cupation, his  thoughts  became  mournful  indeed.  Each 
week  Eleanor  sent  him  one  of  her  long  cheering  letters — 
no  young-lady  epistles  nor  romantic  love-breathings, but  a 
sensible  woman's  letters ;  thoughtful,  sincere,  and  full  of 
that  truest  aftection  which  expresses  itself  less  in  words 
than  in  deeds.  She  knew  not  that,  but  for  these  letters, 
her  lover's  mind  would  have  sunk  from  its  healthy  tone 
and  manly  strength  into  the  morbid  apathy  of  delayed 
hope,  or  the  misanthropy  and  bitterness  of  despair. 

It  was  not  the  sting  of  actual  poverty  that  Philip  felt 
so  keenly.  True,  it  requires  a  degree  of  moral  courage  to 
brave  the  summer  sunshine  of  London  streets  in  a  thread- 
bare coat,  and  it  is  rather  a  trial  of  patience  to  sit  down  to 
a  fragment  of  homel}^,  ill-cooked  dinner  ;  but  these  are,  aft- 
er all,  only  externalities,  and  very  endurable.  When  the 
mind  has  its  own  food  of  present  content,  and  a  certainty, 
if  ever  so  little,  for  the  future,  a  well-earned  dish  of  potatoes 
is  by  no  means  such  a  miserable  repast ;  and  a  man  with  a 
pure  conscience,  and  hope  in  his  bosom,  can  button  over  it 
his  shabby  garment,  and  walk  the  street  with  a  brow  as 
clear — ay,  and  as  lofty — as  any  of  his  brethren  in  the  pur- 
ple and  fine  linen  of  the  world. 

Therefore,  as  Philip  Wychnor  had  always  held  his  body 
much  less  precious  than  his  soul,  we  shall  not  pity  him  for 
any  of  these  endurances.  lie  would  have  scorned  it.  But 
deepest  pity,  indeed,  he  needed,  during  that  weary  summer, 
w^hen  the  agony  of  uncertainty,  the  tortures  of  "sitting  still 
and  doing  nothing,"  gnawed  into  his  very  soul.  Poor  fel- 
low !  many  a  time  he  envied  the  stoncbreaker  in  the  street, 
who  at  least  had  the  comfort  of  working  all  day  and  was 
certain  of  his  future.  At  last  he  went  to  Mr.  Peimythorne, 
and  spoke  openly,  earnestly — almost  despairingly. 

"My  good  fellow!"  exclaimed,  with  some  surprise,  that 
excellent  individual — he  had  seen  the  young  man  come 
to  his  house  now  and  then,  to  dinner  or  tea,  with  a  com- 
posed countenance  and  decent  dress,  so  felt  his  conscience 


146  THE    OGILVIES. 

quite  at  ease  respecting  liis  protege  — ^  "  1  ijad  no  idea 
that  you  were  in  such  a  jilight  as  this :  you  never  com- 
plained." 

"Is  it  likely  I  should,  sir?"  said  Philip,  proudly.  "Nor 
do  I  now ;  I  am  very  thankful  for  all  the  efforts  which  1 
believe  you  have  made  on  my  behalf,  but  I  begin  to  think 
there  is  no  occupation  to  be  had — at  least,  none  that  I  can 
do.  The  misfortune  lies  in  my  being  brought  up  that  very 
useless  thing — a  gentleman."  And  Philip  laughed  bitter- 
ly. "However,  I  can  remedy  this;  I  will  leave  London, 
change  ray  name,  and  get  work  as  a  farmer's  laborer.  A 
mechanic's  place  is  above  me,  unfortunately,  as  I  had  not 
even  the  blessing  of  learning  a  trade.  But  work  I  must 
have,  or  I  shall  go  mad." 

"  I  begin  to  think  you  are  so  already,"  muttered  Mr.Pen- 
nythorne,  as  with  some  touch  of  compassion  he  regarded 
the  young  man's  wild  eyes  and  haggard  face.  A  faint  whis- 
per of  conscience,  too,  hinted  that  he  himself  had  not  used 
Philip  quite  well :  not  but  that  he  had  tried  to  serve  him 
— writing  to  two  or  three  friends,  and  speaking  to  two  or 
three  more,  about  "a  young  man  who  Avanted  employ- 
ment." But  Mr.  Penny  thorne  had  erred  where  most  osten- 
tatious patronizing  men  err ;  and  woful  is  the  misery  which 
they  bring  on  their  dependents  by  tlie  same — promising- 
far  too  much,  and  boasting  of  imaginary  influence,  to  grati- 
fy a  petty  love  of  power. 

There  never  yet  was  human  heart  so  naturally  cold,  or 
so  frozen  over  by  outward  formalities,  that  you  could  not 
find  in  one  corner  or  other  some  fountain  of  goodness  bub- 
bling up.  No  matter  how  soon  it  disappears — it  has  been, 
and  therefore  may  be  again.  Now  just  such  a  spring  as 
this  began  to  irrigate  that  very  dry  and  dusty  portion  of 
Mr.  Penny thorne's  anatomy  which  lay  under  his  left  waist- 
coat pocket;  and, by  a  curious  sympathy  between  external 
and  internal  things,  he  remembered  that  there  was  in  this 
said  pocket  a  live-pound  note.  His  lingers  even  advanced 
nearer  to  it — they  touched  it — but  just  at  this  moment  a 
loud,  fashionable  knock  came  to  the  hall  door,  and  the  tiny 


THE    OGILVIES,  147 

fountain  in  Mr.  Pennythorne's  heart  sank  suddenly  down. 
Still,  it  l)ad  watered  a  little  the  arid  soil  around. 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  my  dear  boy,"  he 
said,  cordially ;  "and  cheer  up.  I'll  think  of  something 
for  you  by  that  time." 

''  To-morrow  —  to-morrow  —  to-morrow,"  sighed  Philip, 
mechanically  repeating  that  word  of  mournful  beguiling. 
As  he  descended,  he  passed  in  the  hall  a  stylish  little  lady, 
who  had  just  stepped  from  her  carriage,  and  was  busy  im- 
pressing on  the  servant  "  Mrs.  Lancaster's  wish  for  only 
five  minutes'  speech  of  Mr.  Pennythorne."  Philip  stood 
aside  to  let  the  visitor  pass  by,  and  then  departed.  He 
crept  wearily  along  the  sunny  side  of  the  square,  all  glare, 
and  dust,  and  burning  heat ;  and  there  came  idly  jingling 
through  his  brain,  in  that  season  of  care  so  dull,  heavy,  and 
numbing,  as  to  shut  out  all  consecutive  thought,  the  frag- 
ment of  olden  rhyme- 
Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalleJ  play ; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep ; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away. 

It  so  chanced  that  Mr.  Pennythorne,  Avorking  hard  all 
that  day  at  a  review  of  a  book  which  he  had  had  no  time 
to  read,  and  in  the  evening  busily  engaged  dispensing  his 
bons  mots  and  amusing  sneers  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's  gay 
drawing-room,  never  thought  again  of  Philip  Wychnor  un- 
til his  wife  asked  him  the  next  morning  what  he  would 
have  for  dinner.  Mr.  Pennythorne's  sway,  be  it  known,  ex- 
tended even  to  the  comestibles  of  his  household. 

"Dear  me — that  reminds  me  that  I  asked  young  Wych- 
nor to  dine  here,  and  I  promised  to  think  of  something  for 
him.  Really,  how  tiresome  are  these  fellows  in  want  of 
employment !"  And  the  old  gentleman  cogitated  for  at 
least  five  minutes  with  his  chin  on  his  hand.  At  last  a 
brilliant  thought  struck  him. 

"  Cillie,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  Pierce." 

"How  much  did  that  young  Johnson — the  fellow  that 

G2 


148  THE    OGILVIES. 

came  yesterday,  you  know,  to  ask  if  I  wanted  a  tutor  for 
Leigh — how  much  did  he  charge  by  the  lesson  ?" 

"  Half  a  guinea  for  two  hours ;  only  he  wanted  his  lunch 
as  well,  and  you  said  that  would — " 

"Tut !  tut !  how  women's  tongues  do  run!  Mrs.Penny- 
thorne,  will  you  he  so  obliging  as  to  go  down  stairs  ?  and 
when  I  need  your  advice  and  conversation  I  will  ring  the 
bell."  And  Mr.  Pennythorne  politely  opened  the  door  for 
his  wife,  shut  her  out,  and  returned  to  his  easy-chair. 

"  That  will  just  do — a  capital  plan  !"  said  he,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  an  air  of  benevolent  satisfaction.  "How  thank- 
ful the  poor  fellow  will  be  !  Of  course,  one  could  not  give 
him  so  much  as  a  professed  tutor.  Let  me  see — saj  fottr 
hours  at  half  a  guinea,  and  that  twice  a  week :  a  very  good 
thing  for  him — very  good  indeed.  He  ought  to  be  quite 
satisfied,  and  very  thankful.  It  will  save  me  time  and 
trouble  too,  for  that  young  Leigh  is  getting  confoundedly 
stupid ;  so  I  shall  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Really, 
what  a  deal  of  good  one  can  do  in  the  world  if  one  tries  !" 

With  a  pleasing  conviction  of  his  own  generosity,  IMr. 
Pennythorne  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  summoned  his 
wife,  to  give  orders  for  a  turbot  and  lamb,  with  a  dish  of 
game  to  follow. 

"  Young  Wychnor  is  coming  here  to-day,"  he  added,  be- 
nevolently. "  I  dare  say  he  does  not  get  such  a  dinner  ev- 
ery day." 

He  certainly  did  not — but  Mr.  Penny thorne  did — very 
often.  Therefore  he  was  obliged,  alas  !  to  pay  his  son's  tu- 
tor only  two  shillings  and  sevenpence  halfpenny  for  each 
hour's  instruction  in  Latin,  Greek,  and  Mathematics. 


THE    OGILVIES.  149 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Should  the  Body  sue  the  Mind  before  a  court  of  judicature  for  damages, 
it  would  he  found  that  the  Mind  would  prove  to  have  been  a  ruinous  ten- 
gcnt  to  its  landlord. — Plutarch. 

Can  I  love  thee,  my  beloved — can  I  love  thee  ? 
And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 
With  no  help  in  my  hand, 
AYhen  strong  as  death  I  fain  would  watch  above  thee? 
May  God  love  thee,  my  beloved,  may  God  love  thee ! 

E.  B.  Browning. 

The  five-pound  note  found  its  way  into  Philip's  pocket 
after  all.  To  be  sure,  it  came  diluted  into  guinea-drops  at 
not  very  regular  intervals,  but  still  it  did  come,  and  ^Mr. 
Pennythorne  had  done  a  benevolent  action.  He  felt  sure 
of  this  himself,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  Moreover, 
the  latter  often  added  to  the  benevolence  by  giving  Philip 
a  glass  of  wine  and  a  sandwich  when  he  came  in,  hot  and 
exhausted,  after  his  three-mile  walk.  These  were  not  "  nom- 
inated in  the  bond,"  and  Philip  took  them  gratefully.  The 
trifling  kindness  was  better  than  the  gold. 

He  had  at  first  little  pleasure  in  teaching  Leigh  Penny- 
thorne. He  gave  his  instruction  carefully,  patiently,  kind- 
ly, but  it  never  seemed  to  penetrate  beyond  the  outward 
layer  of  the  boy's  dull,  overworked  brain.  The  soil  had 
been  plowed,  and  sown  over  and  over  again,  until  there 
was  no  vestige  of  fertility  left  in  it.  Philip  tried  to  inter- 
est his  young  pupil — to  make  a  friend  of  him ;  but  the 
heart  seemed  as  dead  as  the  brain.  Now  and  then  there 
would  come  a  gleam  of  speculation  into  the  heavy  eyes ; 
but  it  was  only  a  passing  light,  and  the  youth's  face  sank 
again  into  its  vacant  dreariness. 

"  Leigh  has  got  plenty  of  brains,  only  they  require  a 
great  deal  of  hammering  to  knock  out  the  laziness,"  said 
the  father. 

"Leigh  has  grown  the  sulkiest  fellow  that  ever  lived, 


150  THE    OGILVIES. 

over  those  stupid  books.  By  Jove  !  I'm  glad  nobody  ever 
put  it  into  father's  head  that  I  was  clever,"  laughed  Mr. 
Frederick. 

"  Poor  Leigh  !  I  wonder  why  he  will  make  himself  ill 
with  sitting  over  the  fire  and  never  going  out  ?"  Mrs.  Pen- 
ny thorne  would  sometimes  lament ;  but  she  never  dared  to 
say  more — hardly  to  think. 

So  the  boy  grew  paler  and  duller  every  day,  but  still  he 
must  work — work — for  the  time  was  going  by,  and  Mr. 
Pennythorne  was  determined  to  have  a  man  of  learning  in 
the  family.  His  credit  was  at  stake,  for  he  had  vaunted 
every  where  his  son's  classic  acquirements,  and  the  boast 
should  be  made  good  in  spite  of"  that  lazy  Leigh."  Morn- 
ing and  night  the  father  attacked  him.  "  Study — study  !" 
was  forever  dinned  into  his  ears ;  so,  at  last,  the  boy  rare- 
ly stirred  out  of  his  own  little  den.  There  he  sat,  with  his 
books  heaped  up  around  him :  they  helped  to  build  the  al- 
tar-pile on  which  the  deluded  father  was  offering  up  his 
victim. 

Philip  Wychnor  saw  very  little  of  all  this,  or  his  truth- 
ful tongue  could  not  have  kept  silence.  He  was  sorry  for 
the  boy,  and  tried  to  make  the  few  hours  during  which  he 
himself  guided  his  studies  as  little  like  labor  as  possible ; 
andif  ever  Leigh's  countenance  brightened  into  interest  or 
intelligence,  it  was  during  the  time  that  he  was  alone  with 
his  gentle  teacher.  That  teacher  was,  himself,  fast  yield- 
ing to  the  effects  of  the  desolate  and  anxious  summer 
through  which  he  had  passed.  It  had  prostrated  all  his 
bodily  energies,  and  his  mind  sank  with  them.  He  felt  as 
though  he  were  gi'adually  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  into 
the  shadow  of  some  terrible  illness  which  he  could  not 
avert.  Every  day  he  rose  up  with  the  thought, "  Well,  I 
wonder  what  will  become  of  me  before  night!"  and  every 
night,  Avhen  he  lay  down  on  his  bed,  it  was  under  a  vague 
impression  that  he  might  not  rise  from  it  again. 

At  last,  one  morning,  when  he  left  the  Pennythornes,  he 
felt  so  ill  that  he  ventured  to  expend  sixpence  in  a  ride 
home — almost  his  last  coin,  poor  fellow  !  for  it  wanted  some 


THE    OGILVIES.  151 

days  of  the  month's  end,  and  Mr.Pennythorne  was  never 
beforehand  in  his  disbursements.  As  he  sat  in  the  corner 
of  the  omnibus  with  his  hat  drawn  over  liis  acliing  eyes, 
he  felt  conscious  of  nothing  save  the  dull  rolling  of  the  ve- 
hicle which  carried  him  somewhere — he  hardly  knew  where. 
There  was  a  crying  child  near  him,  and  a  lady  with  a  sharp- 
toned  voice,  who  drew  her  silk  robes  from  the  babe's  greasy 
fingers,  and  glared  angrily  at  its  shabbily-clad  mother,  mut- 
tering not  inaudibly, "  What  very  disagreeable  people  one 
meets  in  omnibuses  !"  About  King  William  Street  there 
was  a  stoppage  in  the  street,  and  a  consequent  pushing  of 
passengers'  heads  out  of  the  window,  with  a  general  mur- 
mur about  a  woman  having  been  run  over.  All  these 
things  Philip's  eye  and  ear  perceived  as  through  a  dense 
confused  mist — he  sat  in  his  corner  and  never  stirred. 

"What  unfeelingness  !"  muttered  the  lady -passenger 
with  the  silk  dress,  who  seemed  to  find  her  own  self  such 
very  dull  company  that  she  spent  her  whole  time  in  watch- 
ing and  commenting  on  other  people. 

"  Totten'-co't-road,"  bawled  out  the  conductor;  and  Phil- 
ip w-as  just  conscious  of  making  a  movement  to  alight,  and 
being  assisted  out  by  a  little  old  man  who  sat  by  the 
door. 

"  Money,  sir  !"  the  omnibus  man  shouted  indignantly,  as 
Philip  turned  away.  He  took  out  a  shilling  and  hastily 
went  on. 

"  Gen'lemen  drunk  never  Avants  no  change,"  said  the 
conductor,  with  a  broad  grin  that  made  all  the  passengers 
laugh  except  the  odd-looking  little  old  man.  As  he  stood 
on  the  step  in  the  act  of  descending,  he  threw  back  on  the 
conductor  the  most  frowning  glance  of  which  his  mild, 
good-natured  eyes  were  capable. 

Philip  walked  on  a  little  way  into  a  quiet  street,  and 
there  leaned  against  a  railing,  utterly  unable  to  stand.  A 
touch  at  his  elbow  startled  him :  it  was  the  queer  old  man 
in  the  omnibus. 

"Afraid  you're  ill,  sir,"  said  the  most  deprecating  and 
yet  kindly  voice  in  the  world. 


152  THE    OGILVIES. 

"No — yes — perhaps  so — the  clay  is  so  hot,"  murmured 
Philip ;  and  then  he  fainted  in  the  street. 

Luckily,  he  had  upon  him  a  card.  Oppressed  with  the 
presentiment  of  sudden  illness,  he  always  took  this  precau- 
tion. The  little  old  man  called  a  cab  and  took  him  home. 
That  night  Philip  Wychnor  lay  smitten  with  fever  on  his 
poor  pallet-bed  in  the  close  back  attic  of Street. 

At  the  same  hour  Eleanor  was  passing  up  and  down  un* 
der  the  lime-tree  shadow  of  the  palace  garden,  thinking  of 
her  betrothed.  She  pictured  him  in  busy  London,  at  work 
bravely,  steadily,  hopefully.  Perchance  she  almost  envied 
his  lot  of  active  emjjloyment,  while  she  herself  had  to  bear 
many  home  trials — to  walk  in  the  old  paths,  and  see  Phil- 
ip's face  there  no  more — to  have  one  constant  thought  of 
I'liilip  in  her  heart,  and  yet  fear  to  utter  his  name.  Faith- 
ful Eleanor,  could  she  have  seen  him  now  ! 

Oh,  why  is  love  so  powerless — so  vain?  infinite  in  will, 
yet  how  bounded  in  power  !  We  would  fain  spread  world- 
extended  wings  of  shelter  and  comfort  over  our  beloved, 
and  yet  in  our  helplessness  we  may  let  them  sink,  suffer, 
die,  alone  !  Strange  and  sad  it  is,  that  we,  who  would  bi-ave 
alike  life's  toil  and  death's  agony — ay,  lay  down  body  and 
soul  at  the  feet  of  our  dearest  ones — can  not  bring  ease  to 
the  lightest  pain  which  their  humanity  may  endure. 

Yet  there  is  a  wondrous  might  in  loving — a  might  al- 
most divine.  May  it  not  be  that  there  are  Those  around 
ns  whose  whole  spiritual  being,  transfused  with  love,  de- 
lights to  aid  where  our  human  affection  fails,  unable  to  ful- 
fill its  longings — who  stand  in  our  stead,  and  give  to  our 
vain  blessings,  our  almost  weeping  prayers,  our  solitary 
outpouring  of  fondest  words,  a  strength  so  omnipotent  that 
our  beloved  may  feel  in  their  souls  the  mysterious  influ- 
ence, and  draw  thence  comfort  and  joy  ? 

And  if  so,  when,  as  poor  sick  Philip  watched  the  creep- 
ing sunshine  along  the  dusky  wall — tlie  blessed,  thoughtful 
sunshine  wliich  in  London  always  visits  most  the  poverty- 
stricken  attic,  or  Avhen,  during  his  long  restless  nights,  the 
pure  moonlight  came  in  like  a  flood,  and  in  his  half-deliri* 


THE    OGILVIES.  153 

ous  mood  lie  tbonght  it  was  the  waving  of  an  angel's  wing, 
who  knows  but  tliat  the  faithful  love  which  rose  up  to 
heaven  in  an  unceasing  prayer  for  him  may  have  fallen 
down  again  on  his  spirit  in  a  holy  dew  of  blessing  and  of 
peace  ? 

Rejoice,  oh  thou  who  lovest,  if  thine  be  that  pure  love 
which  dares  stand  in  the  sight  of  God  with  its  shining  face 
unveiled — so  holy  that  thou  tremblest  not  to  breathe  it  in 
thy  prayers — so  free  from  earth's  taint  that  it  can  look  on 
the  divider,  Death,  without  fear  or  sorrow,  feeling  that  then 
its  highest  life  begins  !  Be  strong  and  faint  not — be  faith- 
ful and  doubt  not — whatever  clouds  and  thick  darkness  of 
human  fate  may  stand  between  thee  and  thy  heart's  desire. 
How  knowest  thou  but  that  the  sunburst  of  thy  strong  love 
may  pierce  through  all,  and  rest  on  thy  beloved — a  glory 
and  a  blessing — though  whence  it  cometh,  or  how,  may 
never  be  revealed? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

He  had  grown  dusty  with  groping  all  iiis  life  in  the  graves  of  dead  lan- 
guages.— Charles  Dickens. 

Much  more  is  said  of  knowledge  than  'tis  worth  ; 

A  man  may  gain  all  knowledge  here,  and  yet 

Be  after  death  as  much  i"  the  dark  as  I. — Philip  Bailey. 

Philip  was  ill  many  days — how  many  he  never  counted, 
and  there  was  no  tender  nurse  to  count  them  for  him.  He 
stru^irled  throucrh  his  illness  like  numberless  others  to 
whom  sickness  and  poverty  come  together.  One  wonders 
how  such  poor  desolate  sufterers  survive.  And  yet  Death 
often  passes  the  penury-stricken,  misery-haunted  chamber, 
to  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  well-tended  couch  around  which 
gathers  an  army  of  doctors  and  nurses.  Amidst  all,  in 
spite  of  all,  sounds  in  the  rich  man's  ear  the  low,  awful 
whisper,  "  Thou  must  come  away." 

Life  is  to  the  young  an  ever-renewed  fountain  of  hope ; 
and  Philip  Wychnor,  Avhen  lie  arose  from  his  sickness,  was 


154  THE    OGILVIES. 

by  no  means  so  disconsolate  as  might  liave  been  expected. 
Under  tlie  liardest  circumstances  there  is  always  a  vague 
happiness  in  the  first  dawn  of  returning  health.  As  the 
poor  invalid  managed  to  walk  to  the  window,  and  sat 
watching  as  much  of  a  glorious  sunset  as  that  fortunate 
elevation  permitted,  there  was  a  patient  content  on  his  pale 
face  which  made  the  cross-grained  old  landlady  say  quite 
tenderly  when  she  brought  him  his  tea  and  toast, "  Dear 
heart  alive  !  how  nice  and  well  you  are  a-looking  to-dav, 
sir !" 

In  truth,  there  were  a  sweetness  and  a  beauty  about 
Philip's  face  that  would  have  softened  any  heart  wherein 
lingered  one  drop  of  kindly  womanhood  ;  and,  thank  Heav- 
en !  there  are  few  utterly  without. 

The  young  man  finished  his  poor  repast  almost  with  an 
appetite,  and  then  leaned  back  in  the  twilight,  too  Aveak 
for  consecutive  thought,  but  still  giving  way  to  a  quiet, 
pleasant  dreaminess.  He  was  conscious  only  of  a  vague 
craving  to  have  the  dear  soft  eyes  that  he  knew  looking 
peace  upon  him — to  rest  like  a  weary  child  with  his  head 
on  her  shoulder,  his  hand  in  hers,  without  speaking  or  mov- 
ing. And  as  he  lay  still,  with  closed  eyes,  the  strong  fan- 
tasy seemed  to  grow  into  a  reality. 

As  Philip  reclined  in  this  dreamy  state,  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  througli  it  appeared,  to  his  great  astonisinnent, 
the  long,  thin  face  of  Leigh  Pennythorne.  The  boy  looked 
round  the  room,  and  started  back  when  he  saw  Philip,  wlio 
turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  me  !"  he  said,  feebly. 
Leigh  sprang  forward,  wrung  the  poor  wan  liand  two  or 
tliree  times,  and  tried  to  speak,  but  in  vain.  At  last  he 
took  out  his  old  cotton  pocket-handkerchief  and  began  to 
cry  like  a  child. 

Philip,  quite  astonished  at  this  display  of  feeling,  could 
only  lay  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and  then  leaned 
back  too  exhausted  for  speech.    Leigh  began  to  be  alarmed, 

"I  hope  I  sha'n't  do  you  any  harm  ;  I  don't  mean  to,"  he 
said,  between  his  sobs.     "I  am  downright  ashamed  of  my- 


THE    OGILVIES.  155 

self,  that  I  am— a  great  boy  like  me ;  but  I  did  not  expect 
you  were  out  of  bed;  aud  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you  better, 
Mr.Wychnor." 

"  Thank  you — thank  you,  Leigh,"  was  the  faint  answer. 

"  There,  now,  don't  talk ;  I  sha'n't.  I've  got  all  my  books 
here ;"  and  he  hauled  after  him  a  great  blue  bag.  "  Just 
go  to  sleep  again,  and  call  me  when  you  want  any  thing, 
will  you?"  said  the  boy,  insensibly  relapsing  into  his  lan- 
guid drawl.  He  seated  himself  on  the  other  side  the  win- 
dow, and  leaned  his  gaunt  elbows  on  the  sill,  Avith  the  eter- 
nal book  between  them.  But  how  far  this  was  a  kindly 
pretense,  the  quick  glances  which  the  brown  eyes  were 
ever  stealing  at  Philip  easily  revealed. 

"  Leigh  !"  said  the  invalid,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  old  school-boy  voice — so  differ- 
ent from  the  impassioned  tone  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

*'  Don't  call  me  sir — you  can  not  think  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you,  my  dear  boy  !"  And  Philip  clasped  the  cold,  spi- 
der-like hand  affectionately,  for  his  heart  was  touched. 

"Glad— are  you,  Mr.  AVychnor?  Well,  you're  the  first 
who  ever  was  glad  to  see  me — or  who  told  me  so."  There 
was  a  tone  half  bitter,  half  despondent,  piercing  through 
the  boy's  apathy,  but  Philip  took  no  notice  of  it. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  ill?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  could  easily  see  that  the  last  day  you  came.  I 
w^atched  you  down  our  square,  and  into  the  omnibus — I 
hope  you'll  not  be  oftendcd  at  that,  Mr.  Wychnor?"  and 
the  sallow  cheek  of  the  shy  boy  reddened  visibly.  Phil- 
ip pressed  his  hand,  and  Leigh  brightened  up  more  and 
more. 

"  I  said  to  myself  that  you  must  be  ill,  as  you  never  rode 
home  before ;  so  the  next  day,  when  the  governor  dined 
out,  I  came  over  here  to  sec." 

"  How  kind — you,  who  never  care  to  stir  from  home  !" 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  change — I  rather  liked  it;  and  as  for  being 
tire<l,  that  don't  signify— I  always  am  tired ;"  and  Leigh 
smiled  languidly.  "  I  have  been  here  very  often  since  then, 
only  you  were  light-headed,  and  did  not  know  me." 


150  THE    0G11.VTFS, 

"  But  they  told  me  I  had  a  fever.  Oh,  Leigh,  if  you 
should  take  it !"  said  Philip,  hurriedly. 

"Don't  mind  that ;  I  heard  the  doctor  say  it  wasn't  catch- 
ing ;  and  if  it  were,  I  should  not  be  afraid.  It  would  be 
rather  j^leasant  to  have  a  fever,  and  then  I  should  not  work. 
But  there's  no  danger,  so  don't  make  yourself  uncomfort- 
able." 

"But  your  father?" 

"  Oh,  he  knows  nothing  about  it,  I  managed  all  so  clev- 
erly. Guess  how  !  I  wrote  a  letter  in  your  name,  saying 
you  had  fallen  down  and  sprained  your  foot,  so  that  you 
would  be  glad  if  lather  would  let  me  take  the  lessons  here, 
and  you'd  give  an  extra  one  each  week.  I  knew  that  would 
catch  the  old  governor !"  and  an  expression  in  which  the 
glee  of  childhood  and  the  sarcasm  of  manhood  were  con- 
joined passed  over  the  boy's  face.  "  The  writing  looked 
just  like  yours,  and  1  put  it  in  the  post-office  at  Southamp- 
ton Kow.  lie  never  found  out  the  cheat.  How  should  he? 
So  I  used  to  come  over  regularly  with  my  books — and  then 
I  took  care  of  you." 

Philip  was  struck  dumb  by  the  strange  mixture  of  affec- 
tion and  duplicity,  generosity  and  utter  neglect  of  truth  or 
duty,  which  the  boy's  conduct  exhibited.  But  the  good 
was  Leigh's  own  nature — the  evil,  the  result  of  his  educa- 
tion. Philip,  weak  and  ill  as  he  w^as,  had  no  power  to  argue 
the  right  and  wrong  of  the  case.  lie  only  felt  the  influ- 
ence of  this  sudden  upspringing  of  affection  toward  him- 
self; it  came  to  him  like  w\aters  in  a  dry  land — he  could 
not  thrust  it  from  him,  though  much  that  was  evil  mingled 
in  the  fountain's  source. 

Leigh  went  on  talking  as  fast  as  though  he  had  a  twelve- 
month's  arrears  of  silence  to  make  up  at  once.  "I  told 
the  landlady  I  was  your  cousin — she  and  I  got  very  good 
friends — I  used  to  pay  her  every  week." 

"Pay  her?"  echoed  Philip,  as  a  thought  of  his  empty 
purse  flashed  across  his  mind. 

"  Oh  yes — of  course,  father  sent  the  money  for  the  lessons 
just  as  usual— it  did  very  nicely — or  I  really  don't  know 


THE    OGILVIES.  157 

how  I  could  have  got  you  what  you  wanted  during  your 
ilhiess.  But  I  shall  talk  too  much  for  you.  Hadn't  you 
better  lie  down  again?"  Tlie  advice  did  not  come  too 
soon,  for  Philip,  bewildered  and  exhausted,  had  sunk  back 
in  his  chair. 

In  a  moment  the  dull,  stupid  Leigh  Pennythorne  became 
changed  into  the  most  active  and  skillful  of  nurses — gentle 
and  thoughtful  as  a  woman.  His  apathetic  manner,  his  lazy 
drawl,  seemed  to  vanish  at  once.  He  tended  Philip,  and  even 
wept  over  him  with  a  remorseful  affection  that  was  touch- 
ing to  witness. 

Oh  ye  hard  parents,  who  look  upon  your  offspring  as 
your  mere  property,  to  be  brought  up  for  your  pleasure  or 
pride,  never  remembering  that  each  child  will  live,  through 
eternity,  an  independent,  self-existing  being — that  the  Be- 
stower  of  these  young  spirits  gives  them  not,  but  lends — 
"Take  this  child,  and  nurse  it  for  il/e" — think  what  a  fear- 
ful thing  it  is  to  have  upon  your  heads  tlie  destruction  of 
a  human  soul ! 

Philip,  left  to  himself,  thought  much  and  anxiously  of  tlie 
best  course  to  pursue;  and  by  the  best  Philip  "VVychnor  al- 
ways meant  the  rigid ;  he  never  turned  aside  to  expedien- 
cies. Once  his  npright,  truthful  mind  prompted  him  to 
write  the  whole  story  to  Mr.  Pennythorne  ;  but  then  he 
soon  saw  how  terrible  would  be  the  result  to  Leigh.  He 
would  not  give  up  the  poor  boy  whose  fragile  life  seemed 
to  owe  its  sole  brightness  to  liis  own  affection.  So,  as  the 
young  teacher  himself  gathered  strength,  he  set  about  the 
cure  of  this  poor  diseased  mind,  trying  to  bend  it  straight, 
as  he  would  a  tree  which  wrong  culture  had  warped  aside, 
not  with  a  sudden  wrench,  but  by  a  gradual  influence;  so 
that,  ere  long,  he  made  Leigh  see  and  acknowledge  his  er- 
rors. And  all  this  he  did  so  gentjy,  that  while  the  boy's 
spirit  opened  to  the  light,  he  loved  more  than  ever  the 
hand  which  brought  it,  even  though  the  brightness  of 
truth  revealed  in  his  heart  much  evil  that  oppressed  him 
with  shame. 

"And  now,"  said  Philip,  one  day,  as  Leigh  sat  beside 


158  THE    OGILVIES. 

him  listening  to  his  gentle  arguments,  "  what  are  we  to 
do  to  amend  all  this  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  decide,"  answered  Leigh,  hum- 
bly. 

"  Go  and  tell  your  father,  what  is  indeed  the  truth,  that 
I  have  been  too  ill  to  give  you  your  lessons,  but  that  you 
had  not  courage  to  say  this,  and  continued  coming  here 
still.  Surely  he  can  not  be  angry,  since  this  was  from 
kindness  to  me." 

Leigh  shook  his  head.  "  I'll  do  it,  hoAvever,  if  you  say 
so.  You  must  be  right,  Mr.  Wychnor,  and  I  don't  care 
what  happens  to  myself." 

"And  tell  your  father,  too,  from  me,"  continued  Philip, 
"that  I  will  make  up  all  the  missed  lessons  as  soon  as  ever 
I  recover.  I  could  not  rest  witli  tliis  load  on  my  mind," 
There  was  a  look  of  surprise  and  tenderness  in  the  large 
wistful  eyes  whicli  now  seemed  ever  reading  Philip's  face. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  good  man,  Mr.  Wychnor.  You 
do  and  say  the  sort  of  things  that  I  used  to  read  of  long 
ago  when  I  had  books  I  liked — I  dun't  mean  these  !"  and 
he  kicked  the  blue  bag  disdainfully.  "I  fancied  I  should 
meet  in  real  life  the  same  sort  of  goodness,  but  I  never 
did ;  and  so,  at  last,  I  thought  it  was  only  found  in  poetry 
and  novels.     I  don't  now,  though." 

Philip  made  no  answer  to  this  simj^le,  child-like  confes- 
sion, but  it  went  to  his  heart.  He  vowed  within  himself 
that  w^hile  the  boy  lived  he  would  not  part  from  him,  but 
would  strive  throui2;h  all  difficulties  to  guide  this  li'ail 
struggling  spirit  to  the  light. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  was  rather  indignant  at  having  been 
deceived,  but  liis  parental  dignity  grew  mollified  by  the 
humble  behavior  of  his  son. 

"Leigh  is  not  half  so  sulk}-  as  he  used  to  be,  and  he  gets 
on  very  well  with  young  Wychnor,"  he  observed  to  Mrs. 
Pennythorne.  "It  is  not  worth  while  breaking  up  the 
lessons,  when  the  lad  came  himself  and  told  of  his  own 
error.  However,  he  must  apologize  properly,  for  I  can  not 
have  my  authority  set  at  naught." 


THE    OGILVIES.  159 

The  mother  defeventially  suggested  that  it  did  poor 
Leigh  so  much  good  to  go  out  every  day ;  and  so  the  end 
of  the  matter  was,  that  Mr.  Pennythorne  graciously  ac- 
ceded to  the  lessons  being  given  at  Philip's  home,  the  ex- 
tra one  being  still  continued. 

"And  about  the  money  already  received?"  said  Philip, 
anxiously,  when  his  young  pupil  brought  the  message. 
"  Will  your  father  wait  until  I  can  return  it  ?"  Leigh 
blushed  crimson,  and  turned  to  the  window. 

"  Oh,  he  is  quite  satisfied  on  that  account ;  you  are  not 
to  think  about  it  any  more." 

"How  kind !"  And  in  Philip's  first  uneasiness  and  quick- 
springing  gratitude  he  never  noticed  Leigh's  confusion. 
The  boy  had  sold  his  watch — his  pet  plaything  and  com- 
panion— to  pay  his  father  the  money. 


CHAPTEPt  XXIL 


Marriage  is  a  desperate  thing.  The  frogs  in  ^sop  were  extremely 
wise :  they  had  a  great  mind  to  some  water,  hut  they  would  not  leap  into 
a  well  because  they  could  not  get  out  again. — Sklden. 

A  coxcomb  is  ugly  all  over  with  the  affectation  of  a  fine  gentleman. — 
Steele. 

In  the  bay-window  of  a  somewhat  tawdry  London  draw- 
ing-room stood  a  lady  alone.  She  was  looking  toward  the 
street  more  through  idleness  than  curiosity,  for  she  kept 
restlessly  beating  time  with  her  riding-whip  on  her  gloved 
hand.  You  could  not  see  her  face,  except  the  outline  of 
the  cheek  and  graceful  little  ear,  but  these  wore  all  the 
beautiful  roundness  of  early  youth ;  and  her  tall  figure, 
which  the  dark  riding-habit  so  well  displayed,  had  an  al- 
most statue-like  perfection  in  its  curves. 

By  degrees  the  impatient  little  hand  grew  still,  the  fair 
head  drooped,  and  with  her  brow  leaning  against  the  win- 
dow-pane the  young  girl  stood  for  some  minutes  in  thought. 
The  fact  itself  showed  how  young  she  was.  After  twenty, 
one's  ponderings  usually  grow  too  deep  and  earnest  to  be 


160  THE    OGILVIES. 

expended  in  light  and  sudden  reveries.  A  voice  outside 
and  an  opened  door  broke  in  upon  these  musings,  and 
caused  the  young  girl  to  turn  round.  It  was  Katharine 
Ogilvie. 

"  Dear  me,  Katharine,  how  you  are  altered  !"  exclaimed 
the  lady  who  entered  the  room,  also  an  old  acquaintance 
of  ours,  Avhom  we  have  left  so  long  to  pursue  the  sole  aim 
of  lier  life,  matrimony,  that  we  feel  almost  ashamed  to  in- 
troduce her  as  still  Miss  Isabella  Worsley. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  change  !"  continued  she,  in  genuine 
astonishment,  which  really  was  not  at  all  surpi-ising. 
Eleanor  had  proved  right  in  her  conjecture  ;  one  could 
hardly  see  any  where  a  more  graceful  and  beautiful  young 
creature  than  Katluirine  Ogilvie  at  nineteen.  "Why,  what 
has  made  such  a  difference  in  you?''  continued  Isabella, 
"  eying  her  over"  from  liead  to  foot. 

Katharine  smiled,  and  a  faint  color  rose  into  her  cheek : 
a  lovely  cheek  it  was  too ;  no  longer  sallow,  but  of  a  clear 
|)ale  brown,  under  which  the  rich  blood  wandered,  at  times 
suffusing  it  with  a  peach-like  glow.  "You  know  it  is  near- 
ly three  years  since  you  saw  me,  IsabeHa ;"  and  as  she 
spoke  a  deeper  and  more  womanly  thrill  might  have  been 
traced  in  her  silvery  voice. 

"Three  years  !  nay, I  am  sure  it  is  iiot  nearly  so  much," 
said  Isabella,  with  some  little  acerbity.  She  began  to  find 
it  rather  irksome  to  count  years. 

"Indeed  it  is,  all  but  two  months.  It  will  be  three  years 
next  February — I  mean  January ;"  and  Katharine's  color 
grew  a  shade  deeper  as  she  continued  more  quickly,  "Yes, 
it  was  in  January  that  you  came,  Isabella — you,  and  Liz- 
zie, and  George — and  we  had,  besides,  Eleanor  and  Hugh. 
What  a  merry  time  it  was !" 

"  You  seem  to  remember  it  exceedingly  well,"  said  Isa- 
bella, pointedly,  and  not  altogether  without  ill  nature. 

"  Certainly  I  do  ;"  and  the  beautiful  head  was  lifted  a 
little,  with  an  air  of  dignity  not  unmixed  with  pride.  It 
showed  Isabella  at  once  that  where  she  had  left  the  child 
she  had  found  the  woman.  She  turned  the  conversation 
immediatelv. 


THE    OGILVIES.  161 

"  We  have  been  looking  for  you  all  tlie  morning,  Kath- 
arine. It  is  so  horridly  dull  to  be  np  in  town  when  every 
body  else  is  out  of  it;  living  in  lodgings  too,  witli  nobody 
but  mamma.  I  wish  this  disagreeable  law  business  were 
over.  But  come,  my  dear  girl,  take  off  your  hat  and  let 
us  talk.  How  long  have  you  to  stay  with  me  this  morn- 
ing ?" 

"  My  father  will  come  for  me  in  an  hour  or  two,  if  he 
can  get  away  from  the  House.  Otherwise  he  will  be  sure 
to  send  Hugh." 

"Hugh  !  Really  I  shall  be  quite  delighted  to  see  cousin 
Hugh  !  Is  he  altered  ?"  and  the  sharp  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves observantly  on  Katharine's  face. 

"Oh  no!  Hugh  is  just  the  same  as  ever,"  answered  the 
young  girl,  with  a  merry  laugh,  as  she  stood  braiding  back 
the  thick  black  hair  which  had  fallen  in  taking  oil' her  hat. 
T!ie  attitude  was  so  unconstrained — so  perfectly  graceful 
— that  Isabella's  envious  heart  acknowledged  perforce  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  her  cousin. 

"And  Hugh  stays  at  Summcrwood  as  much  as  he  used 
to  do  ?"  she  pursued,  keeping  up  the  same  scrutiny. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  don't  know  what  papa  would  do  Avithout 
him,  now  he  is  himself  in  Parliament.  Hugh  manages  ev- 
ery thing  at  the  Park ;  takes  care  of  the  farming  and  the 
shooting — of  mamma,  of  Brown  Bess,  and  of  myself" 

"  So  I  suppose." 

"Besides,  he  can  hardly  feel  settled  any  where  else,  now 
that  Eleanor  lives  with  Mrs.  Breynton." 

"Ah !  tell  me  all  about  that.  How  odd  it  w'as  of  Eleanor 
to  go  and  live  entirely  "with  a  stupid  old  woman  !  But 
perhaps  she  had  plenty  of  money  to  leave  ?" 

Katharine's  proud  lip  curled,  "  Eleanor  is  not  a  legacy- 
hunter,  I  imagine,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  I  really  did  not  intend  to  vex  you,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Worsley.  "  Of  course,  Hugh's  sister  is  all  perfection — to 
you." 

"What  did  you  say, Isabella?"  asked  the  quiet  and  rath- 
er haughty  voice. 


162  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  You  see,  Eleanor  and  I  never 
took  to  one  another  much,  though  we  are  cousins,  and  so 
we  never  correspond;  therefore  all  I  know  of  her  proceed- 
ings is  from  hearsay.  Pray  enlighten  me,  Katharine  ;  I  do 
love  a  nice  little  bit  of  mystery." 

"  There  is  really  no  mystery  about  the  matter,"  answer- 
ed Katharine,  smiling.  "  I  have  not  seen  my  cousin  much 
of  late,  and  her  letters  are  rather  short  than  otherwise,  and 
contain  very  little  about  herself.  I  know  no  more  than 
every  one  else  does — that,  being  an  orphan  and  sisterless, 
she  likes  to  live  with  an  old  lady  who  was  her  mother's 
friend  and  is  very  fond  of  herself.  There  is  nothing  very 
mysterious  in  this — is  there  ?" 

"  Oh  no !  only  I  was  rather  curious  about  the  matter — 
for  Eleanor's  sake,  of  course,"  said  the  young  lady.  We 
call  her  so  par  excellence,  as  Isabella  was  essentially  one  of 
those  carefully  manufactured  articles  which  the  boarding- 
school  creates  and  "  society"  finishes.  There  is  a  German 
f^iiry  fixble  of  the  Elle- women,  who  are  all  fair  in  front,  but, 
if  you  Avalk  round  them,  hollow  as  a  piece  of  stamped  leath- 
er.    Perhaps  this  is  a  myth  of  young-lady-hood. 

Our  young  lady,  then,  finding  it  impossible  to  pump  from 
Katharine  any  thing  that  administered  to  her  vanity  or 
her  love  of  gossip,  began  to  feel  the  conversation  growing 
rather  tiresome  ;  so  she  took  out  a  piece  of  fancy-work,  and 
having  tried  to  engage  her  visitor's  admiration  of  it,  set 
her  to  wind  some  Berlin  wool,  doubtless  thinking  within 
herself  how  stupid  it  was  to  talk  to  girls,  and  wishing  for 
the  arrival  of  any  two-legged  animal  in  coat  and  hat  to  re- 
lieve the  tedium  of  this  morning  call.  And — as  if  at  that 
auspicious  moment  Fortunatus's  wishing-cap  had  adorned 
her  head,  instead  of  the  pretty  little  nondescript  fabric  of 
wool  which  she  wore,  partly  for  warmth,  partly  because 
any  sort  of  matronly  coif  sets  ofi'a^x^sse  face  advantageous- 
ly ! — lo !  there  was  a  terrific  thundering  at  the  hall  door, 
and  the  servant  appeared  with  a  card. 

"  Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne,"  read  Isabella.  "Show  him 
up   immediately."     And  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  she 


THE    OGILVIES.  1C3 

glanced  at  the  mirrcw,  and  went  through  one  or  two  small 
ceremonies  of  dress-arranging  with  which  fair  damsels  of 
her  stamp  always  honor  the  a2:)proacli  of  an  individual  in 
broadcloth. 

"A  matter  of  business,  I  conclude?"  observed  Katharine, 
"  as  you  said  you  had  no  friends  in  town  now.  Shall  I  be 
in  the  way '?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  in  the  least.  The  fact  is,  that  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne  is  the  solicitor  in  our  suit — quite  a  rising  young 
man  ;  not  disagreeable  either.  He  calls  often — rather  oft- 
ener  than  is  quite  necessary  for  the  law  business" — (here 
Isabella  cast  her  eyes  down  with  an  affected  smile,  and  tit- 
tered exceedingly) — "  so,  Katharine,  it  is  perhaps  as  well 
for  you  to  be  here,  as  mamma  is  so  very  particular.  But 
I  suppose  you  have  not  got  to  these  things  yet,  my  dear; 
and,  indeed — " 

Open  sesame  ! — videlicet  the  drawing-room  door — and 
enter  Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne  !  Then  came  due  greet- 
ing and  introduction,  and  the  small  rattle  of  conversation 
began.  It  was  just  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from 
the  two  principal  interlocutors,  for  Katharine  took  little 
part  in  it.  With  instinctive,  but  in  this  case  quite  super- 
fluous delicacy,  she  soon  retired  to  the  window;  and  if 
once  or  twice  her  eyes  wandered  toward  Isabella  and  the 
new  visitor,  her  gaze  was  induced  by  a  tar  deeper  feeling 
than  idle  curiosity.  To  her,  all  lovers  and  all  love  were 
sacred,  and  she  felt  for  the  first  time  a  sympathy  with  her 
cousin.  The  young  unsuspicious  heart  saw  in  all  others 
but  the  likeness  of  its  own:  the  true  could  not  even  divine 
the  false. 

Yet  a  little,  a  very  little,  did  Katharine  marvel,  when  the 
lisfht  lauoh  and  unconcerned  chatter  of  her  cousin  struck 
her  ear.  Love  seemed  to  her  such  a  deep,  earnest  thing — 
and  there  was  Isabella  all  carelessness  and  merriment,  even 
in  the  presence  of  her  lover.  Lover !  As  Katharine  glanced 
at  the  easy,  self-complacent  rattler  of'small  compliments,  a 
feeling  came  over  her  very  like  self-scorn  for  having  so  mis- 
iipplied  the  word.     And.  turning  away  from  the  mean  })ret- 

H 


164  THE    OGILVIES. 

tiness  of  the  -well-tirmnged  smirking  visage,  witli  its  small 
la})pets  of  whisker  meeting  under  the  chin,  and  its  unmis' 
takable  air  of  "  Don't  you  see  what  a  good-looking  fellow 
I  am  V"  there  rose  up  before  her  the  shadowy  likeness  of 
another  and  very  different  face.  Then  Katharine,  smiling 
to  herself  a  proud,  joyous  smile,  did  not  even  think  again 
of  Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne.  That  gentleman,  on  his 
part,  was  inclined  to  return  the  somewhat  negative  comjjli- 
ment.  People  like  himself  feel  an  extreme  aversion  to  be- 
ing looked  down  upon,  either  corporeally  or  mentally. 
Katharine  Ogilvie,  unfortunately,  did  botli ;  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  received  his  first  compliment  effectually 
prevented  his  hazarding  a  second.  He  found  his  small 
mind  quite  out  of  its  depths,  and  floundered  back  as  quick- 
ly as  jjossible  to  the  protecting  shallows  of  Miss  Worsley's 
easy  talk.  When  Katharine  was  startled  out  of  her  pleas- 
ant silence  by  tlic  announcement  of  the  visitor's  departure, 
all  that  passed  between  them  was  a  valedictory  bow,  which 
Miss  Ogilvie  tried  to  make  as  courteous  as  possible  to  the 
supposed  lover  of  her  cousin.  ■ 

"  Dear  me  !  how  tiresome  these  men  are  !  Wliat  trouble 
I  liave  with  them,  to  be  sure  !"  exclaimed  31iss  Woi'sley, 
throwing  herself  languidly  into  an  arm-chaii-,  while  a  grati- 
fied simper  rather  contradicted  her  assertions.  Katharine 
looked  a  good  deal  surprised.  "  Why,  Bella,  I  thought 
you  were  deliglited  to  see  this  gentleman;  that  he  was  a 
particular  friend  of  yours — in  short,  a — " 

"  Beau,  you  mean,"  interrupted  Isabella,  with  a  laugh, 
"  or  admirer,  or  sioeetheart,  as  the  maid-servants  say." 

"And  Shakspeare — who  makes  the  word  so  pretty,  as  in- 
deed it  is — svjeet  heart^''  said  Katharine,  Avho  scarcely  knew 
whether  or  not  to  echo  her  cousin's  laugh,  and,  in  truth, 
could  hardly  tell  what  to  make  of  her.  At  last  she  in- 
quired earnestly, 

"  My  dear  Bella,  do  you  and  this  young  man  really  love 
one  another  ?"     Isabella  laughed  more  heartily  than  ever. 

"  Well,  that  is  good  !  '  Love  one  another  !' — it  sounds 
just  like  a  text  out  of  the  Bible.     You  little  simplicity! 


THE    OGILVIES.  165 

nobody  ever  talks  in  that  way  nowadays  except  in  novels. 
Where  did  you  learn  your  pretty  lesson,  my  dear,  and  who 
taught  you  ?"  Again  the  proud  cheek's  sudden  crimson 
warned  Miss  Worsley  that  the  childish  days  wherein  she 
used  to  make  sport  of  her  young  cousin  were  over.  She 
changed  her  tactics  immediately,  seriously  adding,  "  Well, 
well,  I  know  what  you  mean,  Katharine  ;  the  mere  form  of 
words  does  not  much  signify.  Whether  I  like  Fred  Pen- 
nythorne  or  not,  'tis  quite  clear  he  likes  me — as  indeed  he 
managed  to  tell  me  about  ten  minutes  ago." 

"And  you  will  marry  him — that  is,  if  you  do  not,  and 
never  did,  love  any  one  else  ?" 

"  My  dear  girl,  how  unsophisticated  you  are  !  What 
difference  could  that  last  fact  make  in  my  becoming  Mrs. 
Penny  thorne  ?  Why,  I  have  had  aifairs  of  this  sort,  off  and 
on,  ever  since  I  was  sixteen.  It  is  very  hard ;  but  if  men 
will  fall  in  love,  what  can  one  do  ?  However,  you  will  be 
finding  out  these  things  for  yourself  one  day,  if  what  I  hear 
people  say  about  you  be  true." 

"  What  do  people  say  about  me  ?"  And  there  was  a 
trembling  at  the  girl's  heart  as  the  thought  passed  through 
it  that — but  no,  it  was  impossible !  She  smiled  calmly, 
"  Pray  tell  me  this  interesting  rumor,  Isabella." 

'•  Only  that  when  Miss  Katharine  Ogilvie  marries  she 
will  not  need  to  change  her  surname,  and  that  our  excel- 
lent cousin  Ilugli  bids  fair  to  inherit  title,  estates,  heiress, 
and  all.     So  thinks  the  world." 

Katharine  drew  herself  up.  "  I  do  not  see  that  the 
world  has  any  business  to  think  about  the  matter;  but 
whether  it  does  or  not  can  be  of  little  consequence  to  me, 
or  to  Hugh  either.  We  are  too  good  friends  to  mind  an 
idle  report."  / 

"Yes,  yes ;  it  is  all  quite  proper  for  you  to  talk  so  now, 
my  dear,  but  we  shall  see.  I  guessed  how  it  would  end 
long  ago,  and  so,  I  dare  say,  did  some  older  heads  than 
either  yours  or  mine.  Of  course,  your  father  and  mother 
both  know  what  a  good  match  it  would  be  for  you." 

**A  good  match !"  repeated  Katharine,  while  her  beauti- 


166  THE    OGILVIES. 

fill  lip  curled,  and  hei"  whole  mien  expressed  ineffable  scorn. 
"Is  that  all  that  people  marry  for?" 

Isabella,  at  this  moment,  jumjicd  up  from  her  scat  by  the 
window.  "Talk  of  the — I  beg  your  pardon  and  that  of 
Mr.  Hugh  Ogilvie,  for  there  he  is  riding  down  the  street. 
And,  oh  !  doesn't  he  look  up  at  the  window,  Miss  Katha- 
rine ?  Well,  he  is  a  fine-looking  fellow,  so  I  congratulate 
you,  my  dear."  If  the  flashes  of  indignant  womanly  pride 
that  shot  from  Katharine's  eyes  had  been  lightning-gleams, 
they  would  have  consumed  Isabella  to  ashes. 


CHAPTER  XXHT. 

Oh  !  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preachiiiif  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

Tennyson. 
Well !  nature  makes  some  uise  ])rovisions  I     Wc  might  be  envious  of 
others'  hajipiness  if  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  we  did  not  despise  it.— L.  E.L. 

Katiiaeine  rode  home  Avith  her  father  and  Hugh,  more 
silent  and  thoughtful  than  was  her  wont.  Two  or  three 
times  her  horse  started  at  some  restless,  almost  angry  mo- 
tions of  its  young  rider;  and  when  Hugh  came  anxiously 
to  her  assistance,  she  rejected  his  aid  a  little  sharply. 

"How  wonderfully  independent  you  are  this  morning, 
Katharine  !" 

"  Of  course  I  am,  and  always  will  be,"  Avas  the  quick  an- 
SAver. 

Hugh  looked  surprised  and  somewhat  hurt,  and  Katha- 
rine instantly  reproaclicd  herself.  "Hoav  foolish  I  am  — 
how  wrong  !"  she  thought.  "It  might  haA'e  been  all  non- 
sense— the  mere  gossip  of  Isabella.  I  Avill  not  think  any 
more  about  it."  So  she  called  Hugh  to  her  side  Avith  some 
trivial  observation,  in  AAdiich  the  gentle  tone  made  all  the 
concession  needed.  But  as  she  noticed  hoAV  hastily  he 
spurred  his  horse  forward  at  her  summons,  and  hoAV  his 
whole  countenance  beamed  Avith  delight,  Katharine  again 
became  troubled. 

In  these  frequent  rides  the  two  young  people  Avere  in 


THE    OGIL\'IES,  167 

the  llabit  of  lingering  behind  Sir  Robert,  to  look  at  the 
country  around  and  talk.  But  this  lime  Katharine  kept 
her  horse  close  beside  her  father's  the  whole  way ;  and 
when  they  reached  Sumnierwood,  she  leaped  off  without 
waiting  for  Hugh's  customary  assistance. 

"  Still  independent,  Katharine,"  said  the  young  man,  too 
little  sensitive,  or  else  feeling  too  sure  of  liis  prize  to  no- 
tice the  change  in  his  cousin's  manner.  She  lauo-hed,  but 
the  laugh  was  forced  ;  and  springing  up  the  hall  steps  with 
an  excuse  about  being  late  for  dinner,  she  went  at  once  to 
her  own  room,  her  young  heart  oppressed  with  a  new  care. 

The  possibility  of  Hugh's  wishing  to  make  her  his  wife 
had  never  crossed  Katharine's  mind  before.  She  had  no 
girlish  vanity ;  and  the  one  great  love  which  absorbed  ev- 
ery thought,  aim,  and  desire  of  her  heart,  shut  out  from  it 
entirely  all  lesser  fancies,  or  even  the  suspicion  of  their  ex- 
istence in  others.  Besides,  all  her  life  she  had  looked  upon 
Hugh  as  a  brother,  and  treated  him  as  such.  His  quiet 
iiature  was  satisfied  with  this  frank  and  affectionate  inter- 
course ;  and,  believing  that  in  their  secluded  life  she  had 
no  chance  of  forming  any  other  attachment,  he  waited  un- 
til his  uncle  gave  him  leave  to  say  "Katharine,  will  you 
marry  me  ?"  fully  persuaded  tliat  she  would  at  once  answer, 
"Thank  you,  Hugh,  I  will."  As  he  really  loved  her  very 
dearly,  he  would  then  most  probably  tell  her  so ;  and  so 
they  would  settle  down  into  placid  matrimonial  felicity, 
such  as  v>'as  in  fashion  at  Sumnierwood.  And  was  the  pas- 
sionate dream  of  almost  idolatrous  love  to  subside  into 
this?  Was  Katharine,  with  her  intense  yearning  after  all 
that  is  great  and  glorious — with  a  soul  so  high  that  it 
sought  a  yet  loftier  for  its  M'orship — thus  to  sink  from  her 
ideal  of  marriage  ?  There,  husband  and  wife  stood  hand- 
in-liand  in  their  fair  and  beloved  home  —  genius,  worth, 
and  Avorld-wide  goodness  shedding  dignity  and  happiness 
around  them.  Could  she  barter  this  glorious  future  for  a 
life  M'ith  one  Avho  had  no  higher  interests  than  the  kennel, 
the  stable,  and  the  chase  ? 

Katharine  almost  maddened  at  the  thouofht.     But  imme- 


168  THE    OGILVIES. 

diately  she  reproached  herself  for  the  intense  scorn  which 
she  felt  embittering  her  against  Hugh — poor  easy  Hugh ! 
How  could  he  help  it  if  he  were  not  endowed  with  brains? 
Katharine  began  to  ponder  on  the  possibility  of  his  loving 
her ;  and  her  memory,  roving  over  past  years,  found  many 
a  little  circumstance  that  confirmed  this  vague  suspicion. 
She  grew  very  sad.  The  love  that  filled  her  own  heart 
taught  her  com2:)assiou  toward  Hugh.  She  thought  of  her 
parents,  and  of  the  motives  which  Isabella  had  imjnUed  to 
them.  The  detested  words, "  a  good  match,"  rang  in  her 
ears,  goading  her  proud  nature  to  resistance. 

"  They  shall  never  buy  and  sell  me — me,  to  whom  he 
gave  his  loving  words,  his  parting  kiss.  Oh,  Paul,  Paul !  no 
man  living  save  you  shall  ever  have  this  hand.  I  will  keep 
it  for  you  unto  my  life's  end  !"  And  again  she  kissed  with 
wild  passion  her  own  delicate  hand — the  hand  which  had 
once  been  made  forever  sacred  by  the  clasji  of  Paul  Lyne- 
don's. 

Then  she  went  to  the  little  desk  where  she  kept  all  lier 
treasures.  There,  with  many  a  girlish  memento — token- 
flowers,  idly  given  but  so  fondly  kept — lay  the  only  letter 
she  had  ever  received  fi-om  him — the  one  he  had  Avritten 
after  his  rejection  by  Eleanor.  At  first,  how  rapturous 
had  been  the  joy  it  brought  to  her  !  And  with  succeeding 
weeks  and  months  came  a  happiness  calmer  indeed,  but 
not  less  deep.  In  all  her  longing  regrets  for  him,  in  all  her 
light  home-troubles,  how  it  comforted  her  to  fly  to  her  lit- 
tle treasure-house,  lay  her  cheek  upon  the  paper,  and  feel 
that  its  very  touch  changed  all  tears  to  smiles !  How 
blessed  it  was  to  read  over  and  over  again  her  name  writ- 
ten in  his  own  hand — linked,  too,  with  tenderest  words, 
"My  dear  Katharine,  my  true  Katharine  !" 

And  she  was  true — fiitally  true — to  the  love  which  she 
deemed  she  read  in  this  letter.  The  thoughtless  outburst 
of  wounded  feeling,  idly  penned  and  soon  forgotten,  became 
to  her  deceived  heart  a  treasure  which  gave  it  its  hoj^e — 
its  strength — its  life.  She  never  doubted  him  for  one  mo- 
ment — not  even  when  his  absence  grew  from  months  into 


THE    OGILVIES.  169 

years,  and  no  tidings  either  of  him  or  from  him  ever  reached 
her  loneliness.  Some  strange  necessity  detained  liim ;  but 
that  he  would  come  back  to  claim  the  love  which  he  had 
won,  she  felt  as  sure  as  that  the  sun  was  in  the  heavens. 
Once  only  the  terrible,  withering  thought  struck  her  that 
he  was  dead  !  But  no— for  in  death  he  would  have  remem- 
bered her.  She  did  not  conjure  up  that  horror  again — she 
2ouhi  not  have  done  so,  and  lived  !  So  she  waited  calmly, 
all  her  care  being  to  make  herself  worthy  of  him,  and  of 
that  blessed  time  when  he  should  claim  her.  She  strove 
to  lift  herself  nearer  to  him  in  intellect,  heart,  and  soul ; 
she  cherished  her  beauty,  and  rejoiced  as  she  saw  herself 
grow  fairer  day  by  day ;  she  practiced  every  graceful  ac- 
complishment that  might  make  her  moi-e  winning  in  his 
sight;  and  Avhen  at  last  the  world's  praises  were  lavished 
at  the  feet  of  Sir  Kobert  Ogilvie's  heiress,  Katharine  gloried 
in  her  resistless  charms,  her  talents,  and  her  beauty,  since 
they  were  all  for  /dm! 

There  was  in  her  but  one  tiling  wanting — the  deep, holy 
faith  which  sees  in  love  itself  but  the  reflection  of  that  pure 
ideal  after  Avhich  all  should  strive,  and  which'in  the  heart's 
wildest  devotion  never  suffers  the  Human  to  shut  out  the 
Divine. 

Katharine  took  the  letter  and  read  it  for  the  thousandth 
time.  Its  tender  words  seemed  breathed  in  her  ear  by 
PauTs  own  voice,  giving  her  comfort  and  strength.  Then 
she  placed  befoi-e  her  the  likeness,  which,  no  longer  hung 
up  in  her  chamber,  was  now  hidden  carefully  from  sight. 
She  gazed  upon  it  fondly — yearningly ;  but  she  thought 
not  of  the  young  poet's  face — she  only  felt  as  though  she 
were  looking  into  Paul  Lynedon's  eyes. 

"They  shall  never  tear  me  from  you,  my  own,  own  love 
— my  noble  Paul !"  she  cried ;  "  I  will  stand  firm  against 
father — mother — the  whole  Avorld.  I  will  die  rather  tJian 
wed  any  man  living  save  you  !" 

But  she  felt  rather  ashamed  of  these  heroic  resolutions 
against  unjust  parents,  etc.,  etc.,  when  she  found  no  change 
in  the  behavior  of  any  of  the  party.     Her  good-natured 


170  THE    OGILVIES. 

father,  lier  kind  mothei',  and  her  quiet,  easy-tempered  Hugh, 
seemed  by  no  means  characters  iitted  to  enact  a  stern  trag- 
edy of  blighted  love  and  innocence  0])pressed.  In  the  course 
of  a  week  Katharine's  suspicions  died  away,  and  she  smiled 
at  the  easy  credence  she  had  given  to  an  idle  rumor.  But, 
nevertheless,  the  thougiits  which  it  awakened  were  not 
without  tlieir  influence,  but  rooted  deeper  and  deeper  in 
her  heart  in  its  intense  and  engrossing  love. 

One  day  Lady  Ogilvie  entered  her  daughter's  little  study 
— it  was  still  the  old,  beloved  room — with  an  air  of  myste- 
rious importance,  and  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"My  dear  Katharine,  I  have  some  news  for  you.  Here 
is  a  letter  from  your  Aunt  Worsley ;  but  read  it  yourself, 
it  will  save  me  the  trouble  of  talking."  And  Lady  Ogilvie 
— now  grown  a  little  older,  a  little  stouter,  and  a  good  deal 
less  active — sat  down  in  the  arm-chair — the  very  arm-chair 
in  which  Sir  James  had  died — and  began  to  stroke  a  great 
black  cat  of  which  Katharine  took  affectionate  care  because 
in  its  kitten-days  it  had  been  a  plaything  of  her  graud- 
fatlier's  second  childhood.  Once  or  twice  Lady  Ogilvie 
glanced  toward  her  daughter's  face,  and  Avondered  that 
Katharine  manifested  scarcely  any  surprise,  but  returned 
the  letter,  merely  observing, 

"AVell,  mamma,  I  am  sure  you  ai-e  very  glad,  and  so  am 
I" 

"  Really,  my  dear,  how  quietly  you  take  it !  A  wedding 
in  the  family  does  not  come  every  day.  I  feel  quite  excited 
about  it  myself" 

"But,  mamma,  it  is  not  exactly  news  to  me.  I  met  Mr. 
Pennythorne  the  day  I  was  at  Aunt  Worsley's." 

"And  you  never  said  a  word  about  it!" 

"  It  would  not  have  been  right,  as  Isabella  begged  rae 
not." 

"Young  people  should  never  keep  any  thing  from  their 
parents,"  was  the  mild  i-eproof  of  Lady  Ogilvie. 

"Indeed,  dear  mamma,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  scarcely 
thought  of  the  matter  a  second  time,  as  I  did  not  take  much 
interest  in  the  gentleman.     But  I  am  glad  Isabella  is  to  be 


THE    CXilLVIES.  IVI 

married,  since  I  think  she  wished  it  very  mucli."  And  the 
slight  satirical  tendency  which  lay  duruiant  in  Katharine 
peeped  out  in  a  rather  comically  repressed  smile. 

"  It  is  very  natural  that  young  persons  should  wish  to  be 
settled,"  answered  the  impassive  Lady  Ogilvie,  "especially 
when  tbey  are,  like  your  cousin,  the  eldest  of  a  large  family. 
The  only  thing  requisite  is  a  suitable  match."  Katharine 
started  a  little,  and  her  fair  brow  contracted  for  a  moment 
at  the  disagreeable  reminiscences  which  her  mother's  last 
words  recalled.  I>ut  Lady  Ogilvie  went  on  quite  uncon- 
sciously : 

"  In  Isabella's  case  every  thing  seems  satisfactory.  With 
your  fathei-,  Mrs.Worsley  is,  of  course,  more  explicit  tliau 
with  me;  and  her  letter  to  him  states  that  the  gentleman 
has  a  good  income  and  excellent  prospects.  The  family 
are  respectable,  too.  Indeed,  Irom  Avhat  Sir  Robert  tells 
me,  I  should  consider  Isabella  most  fortunate,  as  she  has 
little  or  no  fortune,  and  may  not  have  a  better  ofi'er." 

During  this  speech,  delivered  rather  prosily  and  oracu- 
larly, Katharine  had  listened  in  perfect  silence.  Once  or 
twice  she  bit  her  beautiful  under  lip  until  its  curves  grew 
of  a  deeper  rose,  and  tapped  her  little  foot  restlessly  upon 
the  cushion  so  as  materially  to  disturb  the  peace  of  mind 
of  the  great  black  cat  who  usually  claimed  it.  When  Lady 
Ogilvie  ceased,  expecting  a  reply,  the  only  one  she  gained 
was,  "  Well,  mamma  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  seem  to  take  very  little  interest 
about  the  matter." 

"Not  a  great  deal,  I  confess." 

"  What  an  odd  gii'l  you  are,  Katharine  !  I  imagined  all 
voung  ladies  of  your  age  must  be  interested  in  love  and 
matrimony." 

"  I  don't  think  the  two  are  united  in  this  case,  and  there- 
fore I  care  less  about  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  should  care.  You  arc  commg 
to  an  age  when  it  is  necessary  to  have  right  ideas  on  these 
points.    Most  ])i-obably,  some  time  or  other,  you  youi-self — " 

"  Mamma,  you  do  not  want  to  send  Katharine  away  fi-om 

n  2 


172  THE    OGILVIES. 

you  ?"  said  the  girl,  rising  suddenly,  and  putting  her  arms 
round  her  mother's  neck,  so  that  her  face  was  hid  from 
Lady  Ogilvie's  observation. 

"  By  no  means  love ;  but — " 

"Then  we  will  not  talk  about  it." 

"  Not  if  you  do  not  like  it,  my  darling,"  said  the  mother, 
fondly ;  and  at  the  moment  a  sudden  and  natural  impulse 
of  maternal  jealousy  made  her  feel  that  it  would  he  hard 
to  give  up  her  only  child  to  any  husband  whomsoever. 
She  drew^  Katharine  to  the  stool  at  her  feet. 

"  Sit  down  here,  love,  and  let  us  go  on  talking  about  Isa- 
bella, You  know  she  wishes  to  have  you  for  bridesmaid — 
shall  you  like  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  if  you  are  willing." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure ;  and,  moreover,  as  the  marriage  is  to  be 
so  soon,  before  Mrs.  Worsley  leaves  London,  your  papa  in 
tends  proposing  that  it  shall  take  place  at  Summerwood. 
It  will  cause,  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  but  then  Isabella  is  his 
only  sister's  child,  and  has  no  father  living.  Sir  Robert 
thinks  this  plan  would  be  more  creditable  to  the  family 
than  having  her  married  from  lodgings ;  and  I  quite  agree 
with  him,  especially  as  it  will  please  your  aunt  so  much." 

"  What  a  good,  kind,  thoughtful  mamma  you  are  !"  nun\ 
mured  Katharine,  with  a  sudden  twinge  of  conscience  as 
she  remembered  all  the  conflicting  feelings  of  the  last  ten 
minutes, 

"And  now,  my  dear,  as  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  I  have 
ordered  the  carriage,  that  we  may  go  at  once  to  your  aunt's, 
and  arrange  about  the  dresses  and  other  matters.  She  will 
make  a  pretty  bridesmaid,  will  my  little  Katharine  !  I  shall 
quite  like  to  see  her,"  added  the  mother,  affectionately 
passing  her  hand  down  the  smooth  braided  hair.  Katha- 
rine laughed  as  merrily  as  a  child. 

"  And  when  she  comes  to  be  a  bride  herself,"  continued 
Lady  Ogilvie,  in  tones  the  formality  of  which  had  sunk  to 
an  almost  perceptible  tremulousness, "  she  will  inake  a  good 
choice,  and  marry  so  as  to  please  her  papa  and  me  ?" 

-'  I  will  never  marry  without  consulting  your  will  and 


now  BEAUTIFUL  YOU   LOOK   IN    YOUR   BEIDAL   DKES8,  KATHAEINE,"  OEIED  IIUGU,  AS    UB 
MET   UEB   UPON   TUE   BTAIBOASE   ON    TUE    WEDDING   ilOENINQ, 


THE    OGILVIES.  173 

my  fiither's,"  said  Katliarine,  softly,  but  firmly,  "and  yon 
must  leave  me  equally  tree  in  mine." 

"  Of  course  we  shall,  my  child  !  But  there  is  time  enough 
to  think  about  that.  Now  let  us  go  together  and  congrat- 
ulate Isabella." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

'Tis  a  morn  for  a  bridal — the  meny  bride  bell 

Rings  clear  through  the  greenwood  that  skirts  the  chapelle. 

****** 

The  rite-book  is  closed,  and  the  rite  being  done, 

They  who  knelt  down  together  arise  up  as  one: 

Fair  riseth  the  bride — oh,  a  fair  bride  is  she! 

But  for  all  (think  tlie  maidens),  *         *         * 

No  saint  at  her  praying. — E.  B.  Browning. 

"How  beautiful  you  look  in  your  bridal  dress,  Katha- 
rine !"  cried  Hugh,  as  he  met  her  upon  the  staircase  on  tlie 
wedding  morning.  He  could  not  forbear  taking  hold  of 
both  her  hands,  and  gazing  admiringly  in  her  bright  young 
face.  "I  declare  you  only  want  the  orange-blossoms  to 
look  like  a  bride  yourself^ — and  a  great  deal  prettier  than 
Miss  Bella,  too,  as  I  always  said  you  were." 

"Thank  you,  Hugh,"  returned  his  cousin,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  low  courtesy.  "  Only  it  is  as  well  that  the  bride  does 
not  hear  you;  for  you  know,"  she  added,  giving  way  to  a 
light-hearted,  girlish  jest,"  you  know  that  once  uj  0:1  a  time 
you  thought  her  very  hanclsome,  and  people  said  that  Isa- 
bella need  not  go  out  of  the  family  in  search  of  a  husband." 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense  !  I  hope  you  never  thought  so.  In- 
deed, Katharine,  I  should  be  very  much  vexed  if  you  did," 
said  Hugh,  earnestly.  Katharine's  color  rose,  and  she  drew 
her  hand  away. 

"  Really,  I  never  thought  about  the  matter  at  all.  I  am 
too  young  to  consider  such  things." 

Hugh  looked  disappointed  and  confused.  At  last  he 
stammered  out  hastily,  "  I  wish  you  would  come  into  the 
garden  with  me,  and  let  me  gather  your  bouquet  and  Isa- 


174  THE    OGILVIES, 

bellu's  fi-om  the  greenhouse.  And — and — Fve  two  such 
pretty  little  puppies  in  the  stable  to  show  you,"  he  added, 
evidently  ransacking  his  brain  for  various  excellent  ex- 
cuses.    "Do  come,  Katharine  !" 

"Not  now,"  answered  Katharine,  striving  to  get  away; 
for  the  apprehension  which  Isabella  had  first  suggested  had 
never  been  entirely  eradicated,  but  sprang  up  again  pain- 
fully at  the  least  cause.  And  though  the  foolish  vanity 
which  construes  every  little  attention  into  declared  admi- 
ration was  as  far  from  Katharine's  nature  as  darkness  from 
light,  yet  it  sometimes  struck  her  that  Hugh  was  growing- 
less  of  a  cousin  and  more  of  a  lover  every  day. 

"You  are  not  kind  to  me,  Katharine,"  said  the  young 
man,  almost  sulkily.  "  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  either  the  flow- 
ers or  the  puppies,  or  any  thing  else,  except  on  your  ac- 
count, and  that  you  must  know  pretty  well  by  this  time." 

"I  do  not  iinderstand  you,  cousin  Hugh." 

"  There,  now,  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  said  Hugh,  hum- 
bled in  a  moment.  "  Oh,  Katharine,  I'd  give  the  best  hunt- 
er in  the  stables — and  that's  saying  a  great  deal,  consider- 
ing it's  Brown  Bess — I'd  give  the  mare  herself,  or  any  thing- 
else  in  tlie  world,  if  you  only  cared  for  me  half  as  much  as 
I  do  for  you."  Katharine  was  touched.  She  had  known 
him  many  years,  and  had  never  seen  him  so  agitated  before. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  like  you  very  n\uch  as  my  cousin — my 
kind,  good-natured  cousin  Hugh  !" 

"  And  is  that  all  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Katharine,  seriously  and  earnestly.  "  And 
now  good-by,  dear  Hugh,  for  there  is  Isabella  calling."  She 
broke  away,  and  Hugh  saw  the  glimmer  of  her  white  dress 
passing,  not  to  the  bride's  chamber,  but  to  her  own. 

"She  turned  pale — she  trembled,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
I'm  sure  she  called  me  '  dear  Hugh  !'  Girls  often  don't 
mean  half  they  say,  so  I'll  count  her  yes  as  nothing.  Heigh- 
ho  !  I  wish  it  were  my  wedding-day  instead  of  Bella's. 
How  tiresome  it  is  of  my  uncle  to  tie  my  tongue  in  this 
way  !  I'll  ask  him  again  this  very  day  when  he  means  to 
let  me  marry  Katharine."    So  the  young  man  descended 


THE    OGILVIES,  175 

the  stairs,  and  went  out  at  the  liall  door,  tapping  his  boots 
with  his  riding-whip,  and  whistling  his  usual  comment  on 
the  fact  of  his  "  love"  being  "  but  a  lassie  yet"  in  very  dole- 
ful style. 

Katharine,  who,  pale  and  agitated,  stood  at  her  window 
trying  to  compose  herself,  both  saw  and  heard  him.  Tlien 
she  pressed  her  hand  on  her  swelling  heart,  and  the  deep 
sadness  which  Hugh's  words  had  caused  changed  to  pride. 

"  He  thinks  to  have  me  against  my  will,  does  he  ?  And 
here  have  I  been  so  foolish  as  to  weep  because  I  must  give 
him  pain  !  I  will  not  care  for  that.  AVhat  signitics  it 
whether  he  loves  me  or  not?  But  my  father  will  ask  me 
the  reason  that  I  refuse  Hugh^  and  I  dare  not  tell — I  could 
not.  Oh  Paul,  why  do  you  not  come  and  take  all  this 
sorrow  from  me?"  And  her  pride  melted,  her  grief  was 
charmed  away  at  the  whisper  of  that  beloved  name. 

The  wedding  took  place,  as  outwardly  gay  and  inward- 
ly gloomy  as  most  weddings  are.  There  were  the  parents 
of  the  "  happy  couple"  all  pride  and  satisfaction  —  Mr. 
Penny thorne  sending  forth  his  bons  mots  in  a  perfect  show- 
er of  scintillations,  so  that  his  conversation  became  quite  a 
pyrotechnic  display.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  kept  close  to  her 
husband,  and  was  rather  uncomfortable  at  seeing  so  many 
strange  faces.  Yet  her  maternal  gaze  continually  wander- 
ed from  those  to  the  bridegroom's,  and  a  tear  or  two  Avould 
rise  silentl}'^  to  the  soft  brown  eyes.  Once,  when  they  were 
setting  out  for  the  church,  Lady  Ogilvie  noticed  this. 

"I  dare  say  you  feel  sorry  to  part  with  your  son,"  she 
whispered,  kindly  :  "  I  understand  he  has'  always  lived  at 
home.  But  you  have  another  child,  Isabella  says,  who  was 
prevented  coming  to-day." 

"Yes,  thank  you,  ma'am — Lady  Ogilvie,  I  mean,"  stam- 
mered the  timid  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  with  a  glance  toward 
her  husband,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  I  believe  he  is'much  younger  than  Mr.  Frederick  ?"  pur- 
sued the  considerate  hostess.  "  I  am  really  sorry  we  did 
not  see  him  to-day." 

"  Leigh  can  not  go  out  this  winter-time — he  is  not  very 


176  THE    OGILVIES. 

strong,"  answered  the  guest.  And  tlien — a  sort  of  mater- 
nal freemasonry  being  established  between  them — jMrs. 
Pennythorne  went  on  more  courageously.  "I  was  think- 
ing about  Leigh  just  then  ;  I  shall  have  only  him  to  think 
about  when  his  brother  is  married." 

"  Until  Leigh — is  not  that  his  name  ? — groAVS  up,  and  is 
married  himself,"  said  the  other  matron,  with  a  smile. 

"Ah!  yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Pennytliorne,  eagerly;  "he 
will  be  a  man  soon — tall  and  strong;  tliey  say  tliese  deli- 
cate boys  always  make  the  stoutest  men." 

"You  Avill  go  to  his  wedding  next,  I  prophes3^" 

"Shall  I?  oh  yes,  of  course  1  shall ;  but  not  just  yet,  for 
I  don't  think  I  could — no,  it  would  break  my  heart  to  ))art 
with  Leigh  !  lie  must  bring  his  wife  liome— ay,  that  shall 
be  it,"  added  she,  suddenly,  as  if  to  explain  even  to  herself 
that  the  words,  "  I  could  not  part  with  Leigh,"  related 
solely  to  his  marrying.     The  poor  mother! 

Isabella  was  quite  in  her  glory.  She  had  attained  the 
great  aim  of  her  life — the  being  married — it  did  not  much 
signify  to  whom.  So  that  she  readied  the  honor  of  ma- 
tronhood,  she  was  almost  indifferent  as  to  Avho  conferred  it ; 
she  cared  little  what  surname  was  on  her  cards  if  the  Mis. 
were  the  prefix.  Perhaj)S  once  or  twice,  wlicn  Hugh  Ogil- 
vie  and  Frederick  Pennythorne  stood  talking  together,  she 
remembered  the  time  when  she  had  fancied  lierself  veiy 
much  in  love  with  the  former.  She  laughed  at  the  notion 
now.  If  Hugh  were  the  taller  and  handsomer,  her  Freder- 
ick liad  such  lively  London  manners,  and  dressed  so  much 
better.  Isabella  was  quite  satisfied;  only  she  took  care 
to  show  her  cousin  how  much  he  liad  lost  by  exhibiting 
great  pride  and  fondness  toward  her  bridegroom,  and  de- 
porting herself  toward  Hugh  with  a  reserved  and  matron- 
ly dignity. 

Katharine  alone — for  the  first  time  in  her  life  present  at 
a  wedding — was  ejrave  and  silent.  She  trembled  as  she 
walked  up  the  aisle;  she  listened  to  the  solemn  words  of 
the  service  with  a  beating  heart.  "7b  have  and  to  hold 
from  this  day  forward^  for  better  for  v:orse,for  richer  for 


THE    OGILVIES.  177 

poorer,  in  sicJaiess  and  in  health,  to  love,  cherish,  and  ohey, 
until  death  us  do  part.''''  And  tliis  vow  of  almost  fearful 
import,  comprehending  so  much,  and  in  its  wide  compass 
involving  life,  soul,  and  worldly  estate,  either  as  a  joyful 
offering  or  as  a  dread  immolation — this  awful  vow  was 
taken  lightly  by  two  young  creatures,  who  carelessly  rat- 
tled it  over  during  the  short  pause  of  jests  and  compli- 
ments, amidst  lace  and  satin  tlutterings,  tliinking  more  of 
the  fall  of  a  robe  or  the  fold  of  a  ci'avat  than  of  the  oath, 
or  of  each  other! 

Katharine  divined  not  this,  for  her  fancy  idealized  all. 
The  marriage  scene  touched  her  pure  young  heart  in  its 
deepest  chords.  She  saw  not  the  smirking  bridegroom — 
the  affected  bride  ;  her  thoughts,  traveling  into  the  future, 
l^eopled  with  other  forms  the  dim  gray  shadows  of  the  old 
chureli  where  she  had  Avorshiped  eveiy  Sunday  from  a 
child.  She  beheld  at  her  side  the  face  of  her  dreams  ;  she 
heard  the  deep,  low  voice  uttering  the  troth-plight,  ""7, 
Paul,  take  thee,  Katharine  y"  and,  bowing  her  face  upon  the 
altar-rails,  she  suffered  her  tears  to  flow  freely. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  to  herself,"!  would  not  fear  to 
kneel  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  and  take  tliat  vow  toward 
him — and  I  v'ill  take  it  here  one  day  to  him,  and  none  but 
him  !" 

Why  was  it  that  in  this  very  moment  the  bright  dream 
of  the  future  was  crossed  by  a  strange  shadow  from  the 
past  ?  Even  while  she  thought  thus,  there  flashed  across 
the  young  bridesmaid's  memory  that  olden  scene  in  the 
library.  And,  above  the  benediction  of  the  priest,  the 
amen  of  the  congregation — even  above  the  beloved  voice 
which  her  fancy  had  conjured  up — there  rang  in  Katha- 
rine's ears  the  words  of  her  dying  grandfatlier :  '■'■Uarth  to 
earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust .'" 

The  ceremony  was  over,  and  Isabella  had  the  satisflic- 
tion  of  hearing  licrself  greeted  as  Mrs.  Frederick  Penny- 
thorne.  A  thought  did  once  cross  her  mind  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  received  etiquette,  it  was  necessary  for  a  bride 
to  indulge  in  a  slight  faint,  or  a  gush  of  hysterical  tears, 


178  THE    OGILVIES, 

on  rcac'lnng  the  vestry.  But  the  former  would  spoil  her 
bonnet,  and  the  latter  her  eves:  so  she  i-esolved  to  do 
neither,  but  resort  to  the  outward  calmness  of  suppressed 
emotion. 

"How  well  she  bears  it,  poor  dear  child  !"  observed  Mrs. 
Worsley.  This  lady  being  one  of  those  nobodies  who, 
wherever  they  go,  always  contrive  to  make  themselves  in- 
visible— we  have  not  liitherto  drawn  her  into  the  light, 
noi",  to  tell  the  trutli,  have  we  any  intention  of  doing  so. 
After  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  Isabella  quietly  emerged 
from  her  fit  of  repressed  feeling,  and  burst  into  full  splen- 
dor as  "the  beautiful  and  accomplished  bride" — in  whicli 
character  she  may  wiiirl  away  with  her  chosen  to  the 
Lakes,  or  in  any  direction  she  ])Ieases,  for  we  care  too  little 
about  the  happy  couple  to  chronicle  their  honey-moon. 

The  Pennythornes  were  borne  homeward  in  Sir  Robert's 
carriage;  a  circumstance  which  made  Mr. Pennythorne  ex- 
ult in  the  good  training  which  had  caused  his  eldest  son  to 
marry  into  so  high  a  family. 

"My  Frederick  is  an  excellent  boy;  he  knows  how  to 
choose  a  wife,  God  bless  him !"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  somewhat  of  maudlin  sentimentality,  for  which  the 
excellent  cellar  at  Summerwood  was  alone  to  blame,  "  Cil- 
lie,  my  dear  !  now  you  see  how  right  I  was,  five  years  ago, 
in  putting  an  end  to  that  foolish  afiair  Avith  Mason's  daugh- 
ter. No,  no;  a  girl  who  worked  as  a  daily  governess  was 
not  a  fit  match  for  my  son." 

"Poor  Bessie!  Fred  was  not  so  wild  then,"  murmured 
jMrs.  Pennythorne.  "Well,  I  hope  his  new  wife  will  make 
him  comfortable." 

"  Comfortable  !"  echoed  the  husband,  her  last  word  fall- 
inGf  on  his  dulled  ear:  "of  course  she  will.  I  said  to  him 
soon  after  Mrs.  Lancaster  recommended  the  Worsleys  to 
put  their  Chancery  suit  into  his  hands,  'Fred,  my  lad,  that's 
the  very  wife  for  you.  Good  family — style — fashion — and 
money  coming.'  Fred  took  my  advice,  and  you  see  the 
result.  Mrs.  P.,  I  only  hope  that  stupid  Leigh  will  turn 
out  as  well  on  my  hands." 


THE    OGILVIES.  179 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  sighed :  "  I  Avonder  how  Leigh  has 
been  all  day !  I  hardly  liked  leaving  liini ;  but  young 
Wychnor  promised  to  stay  with  him  until  we  came  home 
from  the  Ogilvies'." 

"Don't  mention  that  fellow  in  the  same  breath  with  the 
Ogilvies,"  sharply  said  the  husband. 

"  Indeed,  Pierce,  I  will  not,  if  you  don't  like  it,"  replied 
Mrs.  Pennythorne,  humbly ;  "  but  the  young  man  has  been 
so  attentive  to  poor  Leigh,  and  has  really  seemed  quite  in- 
terested in  this  marriage," 

"Mrs.  Pennythorne,  I  am  sleepy;  will  you  be  so  obli- 
ging as  to  hold  your  tongue  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with 
a  slow  and  somnolent  emphasis ;  and,  immediately  as  this 
sentence  ended,  his  doze  began. 

The  mother  leaned  her  head  back  on  the  carriage  cush- 
ions, having  previously  taken  the  feminine  precaution  of 
laying  the  wx^lding  bonnet  on  her  lap.  She  did  not  go  to 
sleep ;  but  her  thoughts  wandered  dreamily,  first  after  her 
eldest-born,  and  then,  flying  back  some  thirty  years,  they 
traveled  over  her  own  wedding-trip.  Finally  they  settled 
in  the  little  back  parlor  in  Blank  Square,  and  by  the  sofa 
whereon  Leigh  was  accustomed  to  rest,  hour  after  hour, 
with  Philip  Wychnor  by  his  side. 

"Poor  boy!  well,  I  can  do  better  without  Fred  than 
without  him.  He  will  get  well  in  the  summer,  and  grow 
up  a  man,  but  he  will  not  think  of  marrying  for  many 
years.  No,  no ;  we  must  keep  Leigh  with  us — we  will 
keep  him  always." 

Oh  !  if  with  this  wild  "/  v:ilF  of  our  despairing  human 
love  we  could  stand  between  the  Destroyer  and  the  Doomed ! 


CHAPTEPv  XXIV. 


We  tliink  of  Genius,  how  glorious  it  is  to  let  the  spirit  go  fortii,  win- 
ning a  throne  in  men's  hearts;  sending  our  thoughts,  like  ships  of'JVre, 
laden  with  rich  merchandise,  over  the  ocean  of  human  opinion,  and  bring- 
ing back  a  still  richer  cargo  of  praise  and  good-will. — L.  E.  L. 

There  could  hardly  be  a  greater  contrast  than  that  be* 


180  THE    OGILVIES. 

tween  the  gay  bridal-party  at  Summerwood  and  the  little 
dark  parlor  in  Blank  Square  where  Philip  Wychnor  sat 
with  his  young  friend.  They  had  indeed  grown  to  be 
friends,  the  man  and  the  bo}- — for  one  counts  time  more 
by  the  heart  than  by  the  head.  According  to  that  reckon- 
ing, poor  Leigh  was  far  older  than  his  years  ;  while  Phili]), 
in  the  freshness  and  simplicity  of  his  character,  had  a  boy's 
heart  still,  and  would  probably  keep  it  foi'ever. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  look  so  much  of  a  boy  as  in 
those  days  when  Eleanor  first  introduced  him  to  the  read- 
er's notice  by  this  appellation,  nor,  indeed,  as  when  we  last 
saw  him  just  emerging  from  his  weary,  wasting  sickness. 
As  he  sat  reading  aloud  to  Leigh,  tlie  lamplight  showed 
how  the  delicate  outlines  of  his  face  had  sharpened  into 
the  features  of  manhood;  the  brow  had  grown  broader 
and  fuller,  the  lips  firmer,  and  there  were  a  new  strength 
and  a  new  character  about  the  whole  head. 

Philip  had  been  tossed  about  on  the  world's  stormy  cur- 
rents until  at  last  he  had  learned  to  bi'cast  them.  Ilis  pow- 
ers of  mind,  the  thews  and  sinews  of  the  inner  man,  had 
matured  accordingly ;  and  the  more  he  used  them  the 
stronger  they  grew.     The  dreamer  had  become  the  woiker. 

We  may  say  with  Malvolio  that  "some  are  born  to  great- 
ness, some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  them."  Philip  Wychnor  was  of  the  latter 
class.  His  intellect  seemed  to  work  itself  out  by  the  force 
of  necessity,  and  not  by  inspiration.  He  was  perfectly 
sincere  when  he  told  Mr.  Pennythorne  that  he  had  no  ge- 
nius ;  but  the  linnet  reared  in  a  hedge-sparrow's  nest  nev- 
er knows  that  it  can  sing  until  it  tries. 

So  it  happened  that  the  same  individual  who  had  once 
declined  attempting  authorship  on  the  ground  of  his  entire 
unworthiness,  was  now  fairly  embarked  in  literature,  with 
a  moderate  chance  of  success.  All  this  had  come  gradu- 
ally. In  his  deep  straits  of  poverty,  Philip  had  tried  to 
while  away  the  hours  that  hung  so  heavily,  and  perhaps  to 
gain  a  little  money,  by  turning  to  account  his  knowledge 
of  foreign  languages.     He  mounted  the  ladder  of  fame  by 


THE    0GI].V1ES.  181 

its. lowest  step,  becoming  a  translator  of  small  articles  for 
newspapers  and  magazines — a  sort  of  literary  hodman,  car- 
rying the  mortar  Avith  which  more  skillful  workmen  might 
build.  But,  while  searching  into  and  reproducing  other 
people's  thoughts,  he  unconsciously  began  to  think  for  him- 
self. It  Avas  in  a  very  small  way  at  first,  for  his  genius 
was  not  yet  fledged,  and  its  feathers  took  a  long  time  in 
growing.  He  thought,  and  with  the  thought  came  almost 
unconsciously  the  power  of  expression.  He  wrote  at  first 
not  by  impulse  or  ins])iration,  but  merely  for  daily  bread. 
Yet  thoucjh  in  his  humility  he  never  hoped  to  rise  higher 
than  a  common  laborer  in.  the  higliways  of  literature,  he  al- 
ways strove  to  do  his  small  task-woi'k  Avell  and  Avorthily, 
and  suffered  neither  carelessness  nor  hope  of  gain  to  allure 
his  pen  into  Avhat  was  false  or  vicious.  All  he  Avrote,  he 
Avrote  earnestly ;  gi-adually  more  and  more  so,  as  the  high 
cause  in  Avhich  he  had  engaged  unfolded  itself  to  his  per- 
ception. But  he  made  no  outward  display  ;  never  put  lorth 
his  name  from  its  anonymous  shelter;  and  told  no  person 
of  his  pursuits  excej)t  Leigh — and  one  more,  Avho  had  the 
dear  right  of  a  betrothed  to  knoAV  all  concerning  him.  He 
had  never  seen  her  again,  l)ut  they  liad  kept  up  a  regular 
correspondence ;  and  still  the  joy,  the  strength,  the  very 
pulse  of  the  young  man's  heart  Avas  the  remembrance  of 
Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

We  have  taken  this  passing  glance  at  the  outward  and 
inward  changes  in  Philip  Wychnor  Avhile  he  sat  reading 
his  last  story,  sketch,  or  essay.  This  he  did  more  for  the 
sake  of  amusing  Leigh  than  for  an  author's  vanity,  since, 
as  before  explained, Phili]>'s  Avork  was  still  very  mechanical 
— the  raAV  material  Avoven  Avith  care  and  difficulty  into  a 
coarse  Aveb  that  gave  him  little  pleasure  and  in  Avhich  he 
took  no  pride.  Yet,  as  he  Avent  on,  it  Avas  some  satisfac- 
tion to  see  the  evident  interest  that  brightened  Leigh's 
pale  face,  over  Avhich  illness  seemed  to  have  cast  a  strange, 
even  an  intellectual  beauty.  Every  noAV  and  then  the  boy 
clapped  his  poor  thin,  Avasted  hands,  applauding  Avith  child- 
like eagerness.     When  Philip  paused,  he  discussed  the  ar- 


182  THE    OGILVIES, 

tide  in  all  its  bearings  with  an  acuteness  and  judgment 
that  much  enhanced  the  value  of  his  laudations,  and  brought 
a  smile  to  the  young  author's  cheek. 
"  Why,  Leigh,  you  are  quite  a  critic." 
"If  I  am,  I  know  who  made  me  so,"  answered  the  boy, 
aifectionately.  "I  know  who  took  the  dullness  out  of  my 
head,  and  put  there — what  is  still  little  enough — all  the 
sense  it  has." 

"It  has  a  great  deal.  I  am  bound  to  say  so,  my  boy, 
since  it  is  exercised  for  my  own  benefit ;  though,  of  course, 
I  ought  not  to  believe  a  word  of  your  praise,"  said  Philip, 
laughing. 

"  Don't  say  so,"  Leigh  replied,  earnestly.  "  Indeed,  you 
will  be  a  celebrated  author  some  of  these  days — I  know 
you  will.  And  when  you  are  become  a  great  man,  remem- 
ber this  prophecy  of  mine." 

The  serious  tone  and  look  at  once  banished  the  light 
manner  which  Philip  had  assumed,  partly  to  divert  the  sick 
boy.  "  I  hardly  think  so— I  wish  I  could  !"  he  said,  almost 
sadly.  "  No ;  it  takes  far  more  talent  than  I  have  to  make 
a  just  and  deserved  fame.     I  don't  look  for  that  at  all." 

Leigh  answered  with  an  ingenious  evasion.  "Do  you 
remember  when  I  was  first  taken  ill — so  ill  as  to  be  oblio-ed 
to  give  up  study;  and  you  brought  one  day  some  of  your 
German  books,  and  read  to  me  'Undine'  and  'Sintram?' 
Ah  !  what  a  delicious  time  that  was,  after  all  the  dry, 
musty  Cicero  and  Xenophon  !"  And  Leigh  rubbed  his  fee- 
ble hands  together  with  intense  pleasure  at  the  recollec- 
tion. 

Philip  watched  him  affectionately.  "My  dear  boy,  how 
glad  I  am  that  I  thought  of  the  books  !" 

"  So  am  I,  because  otherwise  you  miglit  never  have  done 
what  you  then  did  through  kindness  to  me — I  mean  that 
translation  from  Kiickert,  which  I  longed  to  have,  so  that 
I  might  read  it  over  and  over  again.  How  good  you  were 
to  me,  dear  Mr.  Wychnor !" 

"  But  my  goodness  was  requited  to  myself,"  said  Philip, 
laughing ;  "  for  you  remember  the  three  golden  guineas  I 


THE    OGILVIES.  183 

had  from  the  ' Magazine,'  to  which  you  persuaded  me 

to  send  the  tale  ?" 

"That's  just  wliat  I  mean.  Now,  if  in  one  little  year 
you  have  gone  on  from  making  a  translation  just  for  good- 
nature, to  writing  beautiful  stories  such  as  this — for  it  is 
most  beautiful !"  cried  Leigh,  energetically — "  why  should 
you  not  rise  to  be  a  well-known  author,  like  ray — no,  I  don't 
mean  that,"  and  the  boy's  face  grew  troubled — "  but  like 
one  of  those  u'reat  writers  who  do  the  world  so  much  cood ; 
who  can  make  the  best  and  w^isest  of  people  better  and 
wiser  still,  and  yet  can  bring  comfort  to  a  poor  sick  boy 
like  me?  Would  not  this  be  something  great  to  try  for?" 
And  Leigh's  tones  warmed  into  eloquence,  and  his  large 
soft  eyes  were  positively  floating  in  their  own  light. 

Before  Philip  could  answer,  they  were  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  and  ]\[rs.  Pennythorne.  The  mother's  quick 
footstep  was  scarcely  heard  before  she  entered.  It  liad 
often  touched  Philip  of  late  to  see  what  a  new  and  intense 
expression  came  into  the  once  unmeaning  face  and  voice 
of  Mrs.  Pennythorne  whenever  she  looked  at  or  spoke  to 
her  son  Leigh.  This  day  the  young  man  noticed  it  more 
than  ever.  Even  the  presence  of  her  redoubtable  lord, 
which  usually  restrained  every  display  of  feelins:,  failed 
to  prevent  her  from  leaning  over  her  boy  and  kissing  him 
fervently. 

"  How  has  my  dear  Leigh  been  all  day  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  so  well,  so  content,  mother  !"  said  Leigh,  cheerfully. 
"Ask  3Ir.Wychnor  there." 

"Mr.Wychnor  is  very  kind."  And  a  look  of  deep  grat- 
itude said  more  than  the  words. 

"  Every  thing  went  off  well  ?  Fred  is  really  married, 
then  ?"  inquired  Leigh, 

"Yes,  my  dear.  To-mori-ow  you  shall  hear  about  it,  and 
about  Summerwood ;  it  is  such  a  pretty  place  !" 

"  Is  it  ?"  said  the  boy,  languidly.  "  I  think  I  heard  Miss 
Worsley  say  so  the  day  she  called,  but  I  did  not  take  much 
interest  in  what  she  said;  she  tired  me.  You  can't  tliiuk, 
Mr.Wychnor,  how  fast  she  talks !" 


184  THE    OGIhVir.S. 

"I  know  she  does — that  is, I  think  you  said  so,"  answered 
Philip,  correcting  himself,  and  rising  to  depart. 

"  Don't  go  yet ;  stay  and  hear  a  little  ahout  the  wedding. 
We  were  talking  so  much  of  it  this  morning,  you  know." 
Philip  sat  down  again,  not  unwillingly.  He  liad  a  vague 
23leasure  in  hearing  the  sound  of  the  familiar  names,  assured 
that  no  one  knew  how  familiar  they  were  to  him. 

"  Now  go  on,  mother;  tell  us  about  the  Ogilvies." 

"  I  did  not  see  much  of  Sir  Robert — your  father  talked 
to  him  ;  and,  besides,  he  was  so  stately.  But  Lady  Ogilvie 
wus  very  kind.  And  there  was  Mr.  Hugh,  a  fine,  liandsome 
young  man — so  polite  to  Fred  ! — and  that  sweet,  beautiful 
creature.  Miss  Ogilvie." 

Here  Philip  dropped  liis  gloves,  and,  stooping  hastily, 
made  several  unavailing  attempts  to  recover  them. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  ])rettier  bridesmaid  than 
]Miss  Ogilvie — Katharine  I  believe  they  called  her.  Shall 
I  hold  the  light  for  you,  Mr.  Wychnor?"  said  simple  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  compassionating  the  glove-hunter. 

Philip  hurriedly  ai)ologized  for  the  interruption.  "  But 
pray  go  on,"  he  said  ;  "  we  poor  bachelors  like  to  hear  of 
these  merry  doings,  Mrs.  Frederick  Pennythorne  seems 
rich  in  handsome  relatives :  how  many  more  attended  her 
to  the  altar?" 

"There  were  none  but  Miss  Ogilvie;  she  is  an  only  child. 
Her  father  and  mother  seem  so  proud  of  her!  and  well  they 
may.  Perhaps,  Leigh,  she  may  come  and  stay  with  your 
new  sister,  and  then  you  will  see  her." 

"Shall  I?  I  don't  much  care,"  said  the  sick  boy,  wearily. 
"I  don't  mind  seeing  any  one  except  you,  mother,  and  Mr. 
"Wychnor.  Are  you  really  going,  then  ?"  and  Leigh,  taking 
his  friend's  hand,  so  as  to  draw  him  close,  whispered  in  his 
ear, "  Now  remember  what  we  were  talking  about  before 
they  came  in  ;  it  may  do  you  good  some  time  or  other  to 
think  over  what  I  said — though  I  am  so  young — perhaps 
stupid  enough  too,  as  they  always  told  me;"  and  a  smile 
of  patient  humility  flitted  over  the  boy's  pale  lips.  "But 
never  mind — there  is  the  old  fable  of  the  Mouse  and  the 
Lion, you  know;  we'll  act  it  over  again,  maybe." 


THE    OGLLVIES.  185 

"  God  bless  you,  ray  dear  boy  !"  murmured  Philip,  as  he 
took  his  leave.  He  had  felt  passing  disappointment  at  not 
hearing  that  Eleanor  was  at  Summerwood,  as  he  had  framed 
that  reason  to  account  to  himself  for  the  fact  of  an  unusual 
silence  in  her  correspondence.  This  slight  vexation  return- 
ed again  as  he  walked  homeward,  but  it  soon  passed  away. 
A  man's  strong  heart  is  seldom  entirely  engrossed  by  a 
love-dream,  be  it  ever  so  close  and  dear.  And  Eleanor  her- 
self would  have  been  the  last  to  blame  her  betrothed  if 
these  tender  thoughts  of  her  became  absorbed  in  the  life- 
purpose  which  was  awakening  in  him,  since  therewith  also 
she  was  connected  as  its  origin  and  aim. 

Even  while  he  smiled  at  Leigh  Pennythorne's  quaint  fa- 
ble, Wychnpr  acknowledged  its  truth.  As  he  walked 
along,  the  boy's  words  came  again  and  again  into  his  mind; 
and  he  began  to  think  yet  more  earnestly  on  his  literary 
pursuits — what  he  had  done,  and  what  he  pxxrposed  to  do. 

"  How  can  a  man  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled  ?"  says 
the  wise  man  of  Israel ;  and  Philip  was  not  likely  to  have 
been  thrown  so  much  in  the  circle  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's 
influence  without  being  slightly  affected  thereby.  His 
young  heart,  filled  to  enthusiasm  with  love  of  literature, 
and  also  with  a  complete  hero-worship  of  literary  men,  had 
been  checked  in  its  most  sensitive  point.  He  found  how 
different  was  the  ideal  of  the  book-reader  to  the  reality  of 
the  book-writer.  He  had  i^ainted  an  imaginary  picture  of 
a  great  author,  inspired  by  a  noble  purpose,  and  Avorking 
always  with  his  whole  heart  for  the  truth — or  at  least  for 
what  he  esteemed  the  truth — and  for  nothing  else.  Now 
this  image  crumbled  into  dust,  and  from  its  ashes  arose  the 
semblance  of  a  modern  "  litterateur,^''  writing,  not  from  his 
earnest  heart,  but  from  his  clever  head ;  doling  out  at  so 
much  per  column  the  fruit  of  his  brains,  no  matter  whether 
it  be  tinseled  inanity  or  vile  poison,  so  that  it  Avill  sell ;  or 
else  ready  to  cringe,  steal,  lie,  by  word  or  by  pen,  becoming 
"  all  things  to  all  men,"  if  by  such  means  he  can  get  his 
base  metal  puiFed  off"  as  gold. 

Philip  Wychnor  saw  this  detestable  likeness  in  Mr.  Pen- 

I 


186  THE    OGILVIES. 

nythorne,  and  it  Avas  a- ariously  reduplicated  in  all  the  pet 
ty  dabblers  in  literature  who  surrounded  him.  A  triton 
of  similar  magnitude  is  always  accompanied  by  a  host  of 
minnows,  especially  if,  as  in  this  case,  the  larger  fish  rather 
glories  in  his  train.  And  so  our  young  visionary  began  to 
look  on  books  and  book-creators  with  diminished  reverence, 
and  in  the  fair  pictnre  of  literary  fame  he  saw  only  the  nn- 
sightly  frame-work  by  which  its  theatrical  and  deceitful 
splendor  Avas  supported.     He  had  been  behind  the  scenes. 

Poor  Philip  Wychnor  !  He  was  too  young,  too  inexpe- 
rienced, to  know  that  of  all  imitations  there  must  be  some- 
where or  other  a  vital  reality — that  if  the  true  were  not, 
its  similation  would  never  have  existed. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

What  is  a  man, 
If  his  cliief  good,  and  market  of  his  time, 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?     A  beast,  no  more. 
Sure  He  that  made  us  with  such  hirge  discourse, 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  cajjability  and  godlike  reason 
To  rust  in  us,  unused. 

I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  This  thing's  to  do, 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and  mean 
To  do  it. — Shakspeare. 

Good  Dame  Fortune  makes  it  her  pleasure  to  walk  about 
the  world  in  varied  guise,  suddenly  showing  her  bonnie  face 
sometimes  in  the  oddest  way  and  under  the  oddest  sem- 
blance imaginable,  so  that  it  is  a  considerable  length  of 
time  before  we  begin  to  find  out  that  it  is  really  her  own 
fair  self  She  came  to  Philip  Wychnor  that  very  night  as 
he  was  returning  home,  meeting  him  under  the  shroud  of 
a  London  fog.  And  such  a  fog  !  one  that  people  who  are 
fond  of  elegant  symbolization  would  emphatically  describe 
as  being  "like  breathing  ropes,"  or  at  least  one  that  might 
be  considered  as  a  suspiration  of  small  twine.  It  w^as  a 
literal  version  of  the  phrase  "jaundiced  atmosphere,"  foi' 


THE    OGILVIES.  187 

the  wliole  circumaral)ient  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly 
yellow  and  bilious.  Tlierein  all  London  groped  blindfold  ; 
]SJ"ew  Road  omnibuses  finding  themselves  plunged  against 
the  inner  railings  of  Woburn  Place,  and  cabmen,  while 
they  threaded  the  mazes  of  Trafalgar  Square,  inquiring  in 
tones  of  distracted  uncertainty  how  far  they  were  from 
Piccadilly.  It  Avas  a  time  when  each  man's  great  strug- 
gle appeared  to  be  the  discovery  of  his  own  Avhereabouts; 
wlien  the  whole  world  seemed  bent  on  an  involuntary  fra- 
ternization— every  body  running  into  his  neighbor's  arms. 

This  was  exactly  what  Philip  Wychnor  did  somewhere 
about  Russell  Square.  Dame  Fortune,  hid  in  the  fog, 
laughed  as  she  knocked  right  into  his  involuntary  em- 
brace a  chance  passer-by. 

A  gentle  voice,  obviously  that  of  an  elderly  man,  ex« 
pressed  the  usual  apology,  and  added  thereto  the  not  un 
common  inquiry,  "Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  me  whereabouts 
lam?" 

"I  fancy,  near  the  British  Museum,"  answered  Philip. 

"That's  where  Pve  been  this  hour  and  a  half,"  said  the 
voice,  with  a  comic  hopelessness  that  made  Philip  smile. 
"I  live  only  a  few  streets  off,  and  I  can't  find  my  way 
home." 

"My  case  is  not  unlike  yours,"  laughed  Philip,  "and 
most  probably  there  are  plenty  more  in  the  same  predica- 
ment, especially  strangers.  Suppose,  my  good  sir,  we  were 
to  unite  our  fortunes  —  or  misfortunes — and  try  to  make 

out  the  way  together?     Mine  is  street.     Which  is 

yours  ?" 

"The  same;  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  young 
gentleman,  for  so  I  perceive  you  arc,  by  your  voice.  May 
I  take  your  arm  ?  for  I  am  old,  and  very  tired." 

"  Gladly,"  replied  Philip.  There  was  something  in  the 
simplicity  of  the  manner  that  pleased  him.  He  liked  the 
voice,  and  almost  fancied  he  had  heard  it  before.  Perhaps 
the  old  man  thought  the  same,  since  when  they  came  to 
the  nearest  lamp  the  two  wayfarei-s  each  stopped  to  look 
in  the  other's  face.     The  recognition  was  mutual. 


188  THE    OGILVIBS. 

"  Bless  my  life  !"  cried  the  elder  one,  "  you  are  the  very 
young  man  I  found  a  year  ago,  near  this  spot,  in  a  faint !" 

"  And  most  good-naturedly  took  home,  for  which  kind- 
ness I  have  often  longed  to  thank  you.  Let  me  do  so 
now,"  answered  Philip,  grasping  his  companion's  hand 
with  a  hearty  shake. 

"Really,  my  friend,  your  fingers  are  as  young  and 
strong  as  your  arms,"  said  the  queer  little  old  man  of  the 
omnibus.  "  Mine  are  rather  too  frozen  and  weak  to  bear 
squeezing  this  raw  day;  and, besides,  they  are  not  used  to 
such  a  cordial  gripe,"  he  added,  blowing  the  ends  of  the 
said  fingers,  which  peeped  up  bluely  from  a  pair  of  old 
cotton  gloves — yet  he  looked  much  gratified  all  the  while, 

"You  don't  know  how  pleased  I  am  to  meet  you  !"  reit- 
erated Philip.  "I  often  kept  a  lookout  in  the  streets  and 
squares  for  every — " 

"  Every  odd  little  old  fellow,  you  mean  ?  Well,  for  my 
part,  I  never  passed  down  your  street  without  looking  out 
for  you.  Once  I  saw  your  head  at  the  window,  so  I  knew 
you  Avere  better." 

"Why  did  you  never  come  in?  But  you  shall  now." 
And  Philip,  trusting  to  gratitude  and  physiognomy,  and 
following  an  impulse  which  showed  how  unsuspicious  and 
provincial  he  was,  took  home  his  queer-looking  acquaint- 
ance, inviting  him  to  spend  the  evening  without  even  ask- 
ing him  his  name.  The  old  gentleman,  after  a  few  shy  ex- 
cuses and  some  hesitation,  settled  himself  in  the  easy-chair, 
and  began  to  make  himself  quite  comfortable  and  at  home. 

"  Wni  you  have  some  tea  and  eggs— as  I  always  have 
Avhen  it  is  thus  late?"  said  Wychnor,  coloring  slightly;  for 
he  had  peered  into  his  bachelor  larder  only  to  discover  its 
emptiness,  and  hospitality  is  a  virtue  that  poverty  some- 
times causes  to  grow  rusty.  "  But  perhaps  you  have  not 
dined  ?" 

"  I  never  practice  what  the  world  in  general  considers 
dining— it's  inconvenient,"  said  the  guest.  "Meat  is  very 
dear,  and  not  wholesome.  I  gave  it  up  a  long  time  ago, 
and  am  much  the  better  too.     Pythagoras,  my  good  sir- 


THE    OGILVIES.  189 

depend  upon  it,  Pythagoras  was  tlie  wisest  fellow  that  ever 
lived.     I  keep  to  his  doctrines." 

Crossing  his  legs,  he  gazed  complacently  at  tlie  kettle 
Avhich  Philip  put  on  the  fire,  thereby  eclips:ng  its  cheerful 
blaze.  These  housekeeping  avocations,  which  the  young 
man  afterward  continued  even  to  eofg-boilins;  and  toast- 
making,  may  a  little  dim  the  romance  that  surrounds,  or 
at  least  ought  to  surround  him  as  a  novel-hero ;  but  as  we 
began  by  avowing  Philip  Wychnor's  utter  dissimilarity 
from  the  received  ideal  of  that  fascinating  personage,  we 
shall  not  apologize  for  this  little  circumstance.  And  that 
the  inner  life  of  man  goes  on  just  the  same,  ennobling  and 
idealizing  the  commonest  outward  manifestation,  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  while  the  young  host  continued  his  lowly 
domestic  occupations,  and  the  guest  sat  drying  tlie  wet 
soles  of  his  clumsy  boots,  they  talked — oh  ye  gods,  how 
they  did  talk ! 

The  stranger  was  an  original,  and  that  Philip  soon  found. 
In  five  minutes  they  had  plunged  into  the  deptlis  of  a  con- 
versation which  sprang  from  the  remark  concerning  Py- 
thagoras. The  little  old  man  quoted  with  the  most  per- 
fect simplicity  recondite  Greek  authors  and  JMiddle  Age 
philosophers,  referring  to  them  without  the  slightest  ped- 
antry or  affectation  of  learning.  Such  things  seemed  to 
him  part  of  liis  daily  life,  fxmiliar  as  the  air  he  breathed. 
He  wandered  from  Pythagoras  to  Plato,  then  to  the  Rosi- 
crucian  mystics,  and  onward  to  Jacob  Boehmen,  finally 
landing  in  these  modern  times  with  Hegel,  Kant,  and  Cole- 
ridge, He  seemed  to  know  every  thing,  and  to  be  able 
to  talk  about  every  thing,  except  ordinary  topics.  While 
lingering  among  these  latter  he  was  shy,  uneasy,  and  could 
not  find  a  word  to  say ;  but  the  moment  he  found  an  op- 
portunity of  plunging  into  his  native  element,  he  rushed 
to  it  like  a  duck  to  the  water,  and  was  himself  again. 

Immediately  his  whole  outer  man  changed.  Throwing 
himself  back  in  the  chair — one  foot  crossed  on  the  knee  of 
the  other  leg,  the  tips  of  his  long  thin  fingers  oracularly 
joined  together — this  curious  individual  was  set  H-going 


190  THE    OGILVIES. 

like  a  well-vround-iiiD  watch.  His  bright  eye  flashed,  hia 
■whole  countenance  grew  inspired,  and  his  tongue,  now 
fully  let  loose,  was  ready  to  pour  forth  eloquent  discourse. 
However,  Avith  him  conversation  resembled  rather  a  solo 
tlian  a  duet — it  was  less  talking  than  lecturing.  Now  and 
then  he  waited  a  second,  if  his  companion  seemed  eager  to, 
make  an  observation,  and  then  he  went  off"  again  in  liis  ha- 
rangue. At  last,  tiiirly  tired  out,  he  began  sipping  his  tea 
with  infinite  satisfaction,  meanwhile  employing  himself  in 
a  close  inspection  of  his  liost's  countenance  and  person. 
He  broke  silence  at  last  by  the  abruiDt  question,  "  My 
young  friend,  what  are  you  ?" 

Philip  started  at  this  unceremonious  interrogatory,  but 
thei-e  was  something  so  kindly  in  the  clear  eyes  that  he 
only  smiled  and  answered,  "My  name  is — " 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  interrupted  the  old  man — "I  don't 
want  to  know  your  name  ;  every  body  has  one,  I  suppose — 
I  asked  what  you  are  ?" 

"  IVfy  profession  ?" 

"  No,  not  your  profession,  but  you — your  real  self,  your 
soul — your  ego.  Have  you  found  out  that  ?"  Philip  began 
to  think  his  visitor  was  i-ather  more  than  eccentric — slight- 
ly touched  in  the  head  ;  but  the  old  gentleman  went  on  : 

"  I  have  a  theory  of  my  own  about  physiognomy,  or, 
more  properly  speaking,  the  influence  of  spirit  over  mat- 
ter. I  never  knew  a  great  man  yet — and  I  have  known  a 
good  many  (ay,  though  I  am  an  odd-looking  fellow  to  look 
at) — I  never  yet  knew  a  man  of  intellect  whose  mind  Avas 
not  shown  in  his  face ;  not  to  the  common  observer  per- 
haps, but  to  those  who  look  deeper.  Moreover,  I  believe 
firmly  in  sympathies  and  antipathies.  Why  should  not 
the  soul  have  its  instincts,  and  its  atmosphere  of  attrac- 
tion and  repulsion,  as  well  as  the  body?  We  respect  the 
outer  machine  sadly  too  much,  and  don't  notice  half  enough 
the  workings  of  the  free  agent  Avithin." 

"Well,  my  dear  sir?"  said  Philip,  interrogatively,  as  his 
companion  paused  to  take  breath. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  I  dare  say  you  think  all  this  means 


THE    OGILVIES.  191 

notliing.  But  it  does — a  great  deal.  It  explains  why  I 
liked  you — why  I  followed  you  out  of  the  omnibus — and 
also  why  I  am  here.  You  have  a  good  face ;  I  read  your 
soul  in  it  like  a  book ;  and  it  is  a  great,  deep,  true  soul — 
thirsting  after  the  pure,  the  lofty,  and  the  divine.  It  may 
not  be  developed  yet — I  hardly  think  it  can  be ;  but  it  is 
there.  Now  I  want  to  ask  if  you  feel  this  in  yourself — if 
you  know  what  is  this  inner  life  of  '  the  spirit '?'  " 

Philip  caught  somewhat  of  the  meaning  which  these 
singular  words  unfolded,  and  the  earnestness  of  his  guest 
was  communicated  to  himself  "I  know  thus  far,"  he  said, 
"that  I  have  been  a  student  and  a  dreamer  all  my  life ;  that 
I  have  tried  to  fill  my  head  with  knowledge  and  my  heart 
with  poetry ;  that  I  have  gone  through  the  world  feeling 
that  there  were  in  me  many  things  which  no  person  could 
understand — except  one." 

"  Who  was  he  ?" 

Philip  changed  color;  but,  even  had  he  wished  other- 
wise, he  could  not  but  speak  the  truth  beneath  that  pierc- 
ing- gaze.     "  It  was  no  man — a  woman." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  old  man,  catching  the  meaning.  "  Well, 
such  things  are  !     Go  on." 

"  I  have  had  some  trouble  in  my  life — latterly  very  much. 
It  has  made  me  think  more  deeply ;  and  I  am  now  trying 
to  work  out  those  thoughts  with  my  pen." 

"I  imagine  so.     You  are  an  author?" 

"I  can  not  call  myself  by  that  name,"  said  Philip,  hum- 
bly ;  "I  write,  as  many  others  do,  for  bread.  But  still  I 
begin  to  see  how  great  an  author's  calling  might  be  made, 
and  I  long,  however  vainly,  to  realize  that  ideal." 

"That's  right,  ray  boy  !"  cried  the  old  man,  energetical- 
ly;  "I  knew  you  had  the  true  soul  in  you.  But  how  far 
had  it  manifested  itself— in  short,  what  have  you  written  ?" 
Philip  enumerated  his  various  productions. 

"  I  have  seen  some  of  them ;  very  fair  for  a  beginning, 
but  too  much  written  to  order — world-fashion — all  outside. 
My  young  friend,  you  will  begin  to  think  soon.  Why  don't 
you  put  your  name  to  what  you  do  ?" 


192  THE    OGILYIES. 

"Because — though  the  confession  is  humiliating — I  have 
written,  as  I  before  said,  simply  from  necessity.  It  would 
have  given  me  no  j^leasure  to  see  my  poor  name  in  print. 
I  worked  for  money,  not  rejDutation.     I  am  no  genius  !" 

The  guest  lifted  himself  up  in  his  chair,  and  fixed  his 
keen  eyes  on  Philip.  "  And  do  you  think  every  man  of 
genius  does  write  for  reputation?  Do  you  imagine  that 
v6'e" — his  unconscious  egotism  was  too  earnest  even  to  pro- 
voke a  smile — "that  ice  care  whether  Tom  Smith  or  Dick 
Jones  praises  or  abuses  us — that  is,  our  work,  which  is  our 
true  self,  much  more  than  the  curious  frame-work  on  two 
legs  that  walks  about  in  broadcloth  ?  No ;  a  real  author 
sends  forth  his  brain-children  as  God  did  Adam,  created 
out  of  the  fullness  that  is  in  his  soul,  and  meant  for  a  great 
purpose.  If  these,  his  offspring,  walk  upright  through  the 
world,  and  fulfill  their  being's  end — angels  may  shout  and 
devils  grin — he  cares  as  little  for  one  as  for  the  other." 
Philip — quiet  Philip — who  had  lived  all  his  life  in  tlie  pre- 
cise decorums  of  L ,  or  in  the  rigid  proprieties  of  the 

most  orthodox  college  at  Oxford,  was  a  little  startled  at 
this  style  of  language. 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  me  profane,"  continued  his  strange 
guest, "  but  it  is  not  so :  I  am  one  of  those  who  have  had 
power  given  them  to  lift  up  a  little  of  the  veil  from  the  In- 
finite and  the  Divine,  and,  feeling  this  power  in  their  souls, 
are  emboldened  to  speak  fearlessly  of  things  at  which  com- 
mon minds  stupidly  marvel.  I  say  with  that  great  new 
poet,  Philip  Bailey — 

That  to  the  full  of  worship 
All  things  are  worshipful. 

Call  things  by  their  right  names  !     Hell,  call  thou  heP 
Archangel,  call  archangel ;  and  God — God ! 

but  I  do  so  with  the  humble  and  reverent  awe  of  one  who, 
knowing  more  of  these  mysteries,  is  the  more  penetrated 
with  adoration."  And  the  old  man's  voice  sank  meekly  as 
a  little  child's,  while  his  uplifted  eyes  spoke  the  deepest 
devotion. 

Philip  was  moved.     There  Avas  something  in  the  intense 


THE    OGILVIES.  193 

earneetness  of  this  man  wliicli  touched  a  new  chord  in  his 
heart.  He  saw,  amidst  all  the  quaint  vagaries  of  the  en- 
thusiast, a  something  which  in  the  world  he  liad  himself  so 
vainly  longed  to  find — a  striving  after  knowledge  for  its 
own  sake,  a  power  to  separate  the  real  from  the  unreal,  the 
true  from  the  false.  And  the  young  man's  whole  soul 
sprang  to  meet  and  welcome  what  he  had  begun  to  deem 
almost  an  idle  chimera. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  he,  seizing  the  hand  of  his  guest, 
"  will  you  let  me  ask  you  the  same  question  you  asked  me 
— What  are  you  '?" 

"  Outwardly,  just  what  you  see — a  little  old  man — poor 
enough  and  shabby  enough ;  because,  while  other  folk 
spend  their  lives  in  trying  how  to  feed  and  clothe  their 
bodies,  he  has  spent  his  in  doing  the  same  for  his  soul. 
And  a  very  creditable  soul  it  is,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
laughing,  and  tapping  with  his  forefinger  a  brow  full,  high, 
and  broad  enough  to  delight  any  follower  of  Spurzheini 
with  its  magnificent  developments.  "  There's  a  good  deal 
of  floating  capital  here,  in  the  way  of  learning,  only  it  does 
not  bring  in  much  interest," 

Philip  smiled.  "  So  your  life  has  been  devoted  to  study  ! 
Of  what  kind  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  contrived  during  sixty  years  to  put  into 
this  pericranium  some  dozen  languages,  a  good  deal  of 
mathematics  and  metaphysics,  a  little  of  nearly  all  the 
onomies  and  ologies,  with  fragments  of  literature  and  poet- 
ry to  lighten  the  load  and  make  it  fit  tight  together.  As 
for  my  profession,  it  is  none  at  all,  if  you  ask  the  world's 
opinion  ;  but  I  think  I  may  rank,  however  humbly,  with 
some  honest  fellows  of  old,  who  in  their  lifetime  Avere  re- 
garded about  as  little  as  I  am.  In  fact,  my  good  friend,  I 
may  call  myself  a  philosopher." 

"And  a  poet,"  cried  Philip  ;  "I  read  it  in  your  eyes." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  God  makes  many  poets, 
but  he  only  gives  utterance  to  a  few.  He  never  gave  it  to 
me.  Nevertheless,  I  can  distinguish  this  power  in  othei-s; 
I  can  feel  it  sometimes  rising  and  bubbling  up  in  my  own 

12 


194  THE    OGILVIES. 

Boul ;  but  there  is  a  seal  on  my  lips,  and  I  shall  remain  a 
dumb  ])oct  to  my  life's  end."  So  saying,  Philip's  guest 
rose,  and  began  to  button  up  his  well-worn  coat  as  a  pre- 
parative to  his  departure. 

"We  sliall  meet  again  soon?"  said  the  young  man,  cor- 
dially. 

"Oh  yes;  you  will  always  find  me  at  the  Ib'itish  Muse 
um,  in  the  reu ding-room.  I  go  there  every  day.  'Tis  a 
nice  wai'ni  ])la^'e  for  study,  especially  when  one  finds  that 
dinner  and  tire  ai'o  too  great  luxuries  on  the  same  day.  I 
liave  done  so  now  and  then,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with 
a  patient  smile,  that  made  Philij)'s  warm  shake;  of  the  hand 
grow  into  an  almost  affectionate  clasp.  They  seemed  to 
feel  quite  like  old  friends,  and  yet  to  this  minute  they  did 
not  know  each  other's  luime.  The  elder  one  was  absolute- 
ly going  away  without  this  necessary  piece  of  information, 
when  Philip,  disclosing  his  o\\  n  patronymic,  requested  to 
know  his  visitor's. 

"My  name,  eh  ?  Drysdale — David  Drysdalo.  A  good 
one,  isn't  it?  My  great  grandfather  made  it  tolerably  well 
known  among  the  Scottish  Covenanters.  The  Christian 
n..ine  is  not  bad  either.  You  know  the  Hebrew  meaning, 
'beloved.'  Not  that  it  has  been  exactly  suitable  for  me — 
I  don't  suppose  any  one  in  the  world  ever  loved  me  much" 
— and  a  slight  bitterness  was  perceptible  in  the  quaint  hu- 
mor of  the  tone.  Bnt  it  changed  into  softness  as  he  add- 
ed, ''  except — except  my  poor  old  mother.  Young  man," 
lie  continued,  "  when  you  have  lived  as  long  as  1  have,  you 
may  perhaps  find  out  that  there  are  in  this  world  two  sorts 
of  love  only — which  last  until  death,  and  after — your  moth- 
er's love,  and  your  God's."  He  took  off  his  hat  reverent- 
ly, though  they  stood  at  the  street  door,  exposed  to  the 
bleak  wind;  then  put  it  on  again,  and  disappeared. 


THE    OGILVIES.  lOt 


CIIxVPTER  XXVI. 

Ob,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel,  and  know  it, 

That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. — J.  11.  Lowell- 

I  am  a  youthful  traveler  in  the  way. 
And  tliis  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  tliee 
Ere  1  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  1  am  free. 

II.  KiuKE  White. 

Philip  was  in  the  habit  of  laying  up  in  his  memory  a 
kindly  store  of  his  little  daily  adventures,  in  order  to  amuse 
Leigh  Pennythorne.  Aho,  as  the  boy  grew  more  and  more 
of  a  companion  and  friend,  he  shared  many  of  Philip's  most 
inward  thoughts — always  excepting  (he  one  which  lay  in 
the  core  of  the  young  man's  heart.  Therefore  Leigh  was 
soon  informed  of  the  singular  acquaintance  that  Wychnor 
made  in  the  last  chapter, 

"  David  Drysdale  !"  said  Leigh,  "  Why,  my  father,  nay, 
every  body  knows  old  Drysdale.  I  have  seen  him  here 
sometimes,  and  watched  those  curious  eyes  of  his — they 
seem  to  look  one  through." 

"  Does  he  come  often  ?" 

"  Xo,  my  father  can't  endure  him — says  he  is  sucli  a  bear. 
Then  Drysdale  has  a  great  deal  of  dry  humor;  and  when 
two  flints  meet  there  is  a  blaze  directly,  you  know." 

"  But  still  there  is  no  quarrel  between  him  and  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  my  father  would  never  quarrel  with  such  a 
man  as  Drysdale,  He  has  wonderful  influence,  in  a  quiet 
way,  among  literary  people.  He  knows  every  body,  and 
every  body  knows  him.  I  have  heard  that  his  learning  is 
yjrodigious  !" 

"I  found  that  out  very  soon,"  said  Philip,  smiling. 

"Ay,  and  so  did  I,"  Leigh  continued,  "In  those  old 
times   of  work — work — work — you    know" — and  the  boy 


196  THE    OGILYIES. 

seemed  absolutely  to  shudder  at  the  remembrance — "  my 
father  once  sent  me  down  stairs  to  show  oS  my  Greek  to 
Drysdale.  Hoav  the  old  fellow  frightened  me  with  those 
eyes  of  his  !  I  forgot  every  word.  And  then  he  told  my 
father  that  I  was  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  I  looked,  but  that 
I  should  soon  be  if  I  went  on  witli  the  classics.  Perhaps 
he  was  right,"  said  Leigh,  sighing.  "However, my  father 
never  asked  him  here  again,  but  made  me  work  harder  than 
ever."  Philip  saw  that  tlie  boy's  thoughts  were  wander- 
ing in  a  direction  not  good  for  him,  so  he  took  no  notice,  but 
pursued  the  questions  about  the  old  philosopher.  "How 
happens  it,  though,  that  Drysdale  is  so  poor  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  my  father  say  it;  is  because  of  his  genius 
and  his  learning,  which  are  never  of  any  use  to  their  pos- 
sessors.    But  I  do  not  exactly  think  that ;  do  you  ?" 

"  No ;  however,  your  father  has  many  peculiar  opinions 
of  his  own,"  answered  Philip,  always  careful  in  their  vari- 
ous conversations  to  remember  that  Leigh  Avas  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne's  son.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  this  man's  tastes,  while 
rendering  him  somewhat  unfit  for  the  ordinary  world,  also 
make  him  independent  of  it.  If  he  had  just  enough  to  keep 
him  alive,  and  plenty  of  ojiportunity  for  study,  I  fancy  Drys- 
dale would  be  quite  happy." 

"Very  likely;  but  it  is  an  odd  taste,"  said  Leigh.  "I 
can  understand  genius — not  learning." 

"Our  queer  old  friend  has  both, I  think."  And  Philip 
repeated  the  substance  of  the  last  evening's  convei'sation, 
which  had  clung  closely  to  his  memory,  Leigh  listened 
eagerly,  partly  because  he  comprehended  some  little  of  it, 
but  more  because  he  saw  how  deeply  his  friend  was  inter- 
ested. 

"  Mr.  Wychnor,"  he  said  at  last, "  if  you  understand  and 
feel  all  this,  you  must  have  a  strong  and  great  intellect 
yourself.    Otherwise  you  would  not  care  for  it  in  the  least." 

The  simple  argument  struck  lionie.  It  brought  to  the 
young  author's  mind  the  first  consciousness  of  it's  own  pow' 
ers,  without  Avliich  no  genius  can  come  to  perfection.  It 
was  not  the  whisper  of  vanity — the  answering  thrill  to  idle 


THE    OGILVIES.  19'? 

praise — but  the  glad  sense  of  an  inward  strength  to  carry 
out  the  purpose  which  filled  the  soul.  It  was  the  power 
which  made  the  new-born  Hercules  stretch  forth  amons: 
the  serpents  his  babe's  arm,  and  feel  that  in  its  nerves  lay 
the  miixht  of  the  son  of  Jove.  The  thouG;ht  was  so  solemn, 
yet  so  wildly  delicious,  that  it  brought  a  mist  to  Philip's 
eyes.  "  God  bless  you,  Leigh  !"  he  murmured.  "You  have 
done  me  good  many  a  time ;  and  if  this  should  be  true,  and 
I  ever  do  become  what  you  say — why,  I  will  remember 
your  words,  or  you  must  remind  me  of  them." 

Leigh  turned  round,  and  looked  for  a  moment  fixedly 
and  sadly  in  his  companion's  face.  "You  do  not  mean 
what  you  say;  you  know  that  I — But  w^e  will  talk  no 
more  now,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  as  he  caught  sight  of  his 
mother  entering  the  room.  However,  wdien  he  had  mi- 
nutely and  afi:ectionately  discussed  with  her  the  import- 
ant topic  of  what  he  could  eat  for  dinner,  the  boy  lay  for 
a  long  time  silent  and  pensive.  It  might  be  that  ujion 
him  too  had  come  a  new  and  sudden  thought — more  sol- 
emn than  even  that  which  had  cast  a  musing  shadow  over 
Philip  Wychnor.  Both  thoughts  passed  on  into  the  unde- 
fined future ;  but  one  was  of  life,  the  other — of  death  ! 

Mrs.  Pennythorne,  supposing  her  boy  Avas  asleep,  went 
on  talking  to  his  friend  in  her  own  quiet,  prosy  way,  to 
w^hich  Philip  had  now  grown  quite  accustomed.  His  fond- 
ness and  care  for  Leigh  had  touched  the  mother's  heart, 
and  long  since  worn  away  her  shyness.  On  his  part,  the 
young  man  was  an  excellent  listener  to  the  monotonous, 
but  not  unmusical  flow  of  mild  repetitions  which  made  up 
Mrs.  Pennythorne's  conversation.  On  this  occasion  it  chitf 
ly  turned  upon  Frederick's  wedding,  his  new  house  and  fur- 
niture, which  she  accurately  catalogued,  beginning  with  the 
drawing-room  carpets,  and  ending  with  the  kitchen  fire- 
irons.  Philip  tried  to  attend,  but  at  last  his  thoughts  went 
roaming,  and  his  answers  subsided  into  gentle  monosylla- 
bles of  assent,  Avhich,  fortunately,  were  all  that  the  lady 
required. 

Of  Leigh  his  mother  did  not  speak  at  all,  except  to  sa^ 


198 


THE    OGILVIES. 


that  the  pony  carriage,  wliich  Mrs.  Frederick  had  thouglit 
indisi:»ensable,  would  be  useful  to  take  the  boy  country 
drives  Avhen  the  spring  came — supposing  he  needed  them 
by  that  time,  which  was  not  likely,  as  he  had  been  so  much 
better  of  late.  And  then,  as  she  glanced  at  the  face  whi(-h 
lay  back  on  the  sofa-pillow,  with  the  blue-veined,  shut  eye- 
lids, and  tlie  dark  lashes  resting  on  the  colorless  cheek,  in 
a  repose  that  seemed  almost  deeper  than  sleep,  the  mother 
shivered,  looked  another  waj-,  and  began  to  talk  hastily  of 
something  else.  A  few  minutes  after,  the  peculiar  rap  with 
which  Mr.  Pennythorne  signaled  his  arrival  was  heard  at 
the  hall  door.  Those  three  heavy  strokes  had  always  the 
effect  of  an  electric  shock  on  the  whole  household,  produ- 
cing a  commotion  from  cellar  to  attic.  Mrs.  Pennythorne 
jumped  up  with  alacrity,  only  observing,  timidly,  that  she 
hoped  the  knock  would  not  awaken  Leigh. 

"I  am  not  asleep,  mother,"  said  the  boy,  rousing  himself 
as  she  quitted  the  room  in  answer  to  the  marital  summons. 
"Mr.Wychnor,  come  here  a  minute,"  he  added,  hurriedly, 
the  flush  rising  into  his  white  cheek  at  the  very  sound  of 
his  father's  step.  "Don't  tell  him  you  know  Drysdale — 
it  might  vex  him.     He  is  rather  peculiar,  you  know." 

"How  thoughtful  you  are  grown,  ray  dear  kind  boy ! 
And  was  that  what  you  lay  pondering  upon  when  we  fan- 
cied you  asleep  ?" 

"Not  quite  all,"  Leigh  replied,  suddenly  looking  grave, 
"but— but— we'll  talk  of  that  another  time.  You  must 
go  to  tke  Museum  Reading-room ;  it  would  be  such  a  nice 
place  for  you  to  work  in— far  better  than  your  own  close 
little  room.  You  don't  feel  what  it  is  to  be  shut  up  all 
day,  until  you  grow  sick,  bewildered,  ill.  No,  no,  you  oiucst 
not  get  ill,"  cried  the  boy,  earnestly;  "  you  must  live— live 
to  be  a  great  man.  And  remember  always  what  we  talked 
about  to-day,"  he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whis- 
per as  his  father  entered  the  room. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  whisked  about  in  his  usual  style,  skip- 
ping  hither  and  thither,  and  shaking  his  coat-tails  when- 
ever he  rested,  after  a  fashion  Avhich  gave  him  very  much 


THE    OGILVIES.  109 

the  appearance  of  a  water-Avagtail  He  was  evidently  in 
hit^li  feather  too  —  asked  Leigh  how  he  felt  himself,  and 
only  called  him  "  stupid"  twice  within  the  first  ten  min- 
utes.    Then  he  turned  to  Philip. 

"Well,  and  how  does  the  Avorld  treat  you,  young  JVor- 
wychT''  (Mr.  Penny thorne  had  an  amusing  system  of  cog- 
nominizing  those  about  him  by  some  ingenious  transposi- 
tion of  their  various  patronymics,  and  this  was  the  ana- 
gram into  which  Philip  Wychnor's  surname  had  long  ago 
been  decomposed.)  "Where  do  you  put  your  carriage 
and  pair,  my  young  friend  ?     I  have  not  seen  it  yet." 

Philip  smiled,  but  he  was  too  well  accustomed  to  the 
bitter  "pleasantries"  of  his  would-be  patron  to  take  of- 
fense, and  he  always  bore  it  patiently  for  Leigh's  sake. 

"  Ay,  that's  all  the  good  of  being  a  gentleman  with  a 
large  independence — in  the  head,  at  least ;"  and  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne  laughed  at  what  he  considered  his  wit.  "  Now 
here's  my  Fred — clever  fellow  !  knows  how  to  make  his 
way  in  the  world  !— just  come  from  his  house  in  ILirley 
Street— splendid  affair!  furnished  like  a  duke's— as,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Lancaster  observed.     By-the-by,  Cillie,  my  dear  !" 

"  Yes,  Pierce,"  was  the  meek  answer  from  behind  tlie 
door. 

"I  met  Mrs.  Lancaster  in  the  Park — charming  woman 
that;  moves  in  the  highest  circles  of  literature.  Of  course 
you  are  acquainted  with  her,  St.  Philippus  of  Norwich  ?" 

"No,"  answered  the  young  man,  shortly;  "except  once 
in  your  hall,  I  never  heard  the  name."  \\\  truth  he  never 
had,  notwithstanding  Eleanor's  acquaintance  with  the  lady. 
But  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  the  last  person  likely  to  have  place 
in  the  memory  or  the  letters  of  Philip's  betrothed. 

"  Then  you  have  a  pleasure  to  come — for,  of  course,  the 
fair  Lancastrian  will  strain  every  nerve  for  an  introduction 
to  such  a  desirable  young  man,  that  you  may  embellish  her 
literary  soirees  with  your  well-earned  fame,"  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne  drew  the  bow  at  a  venture  ;  and,  as  he  saw  Philip's 
cheek  redden,  congratulated  himself  on  the  keen  shafts  of 
his  irony,  quite  unconscious  how  near  sarcasm  touched  upon 


200  THE    OGILVIES. 

the  truth.  "And  this  reminds  me,  Cillie,  my  dear,  that, 
hearing  what  a  Leautifal  and  talented  woman  I  have  the 
honor  to  call  my  wife,  Mrs.  Lancaster  has  invited  you  to 
grace  with  your  presence  the  next  soiree.'''' 

Poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne  drew  back  aghast.  "  You  know, 
Pierce,  I  never  go  out,"  she  feebly  remonstrated;  "I  had 
rather  stay  with  Leigh." 

"  My  dear,  the  whole  party  would  languish  at  your  ab- 
sence, and  I  can  not  allow  it.  Besides,  you  will  have  to 
matronize  your  fair  daughter-in-law,  for  Mrs.  Lancaster  is 
well  acquainted  with  the  Ogilvies,  knows  every  branch  of 
the  family,  and  will  ask  them  to  meet  us.  The  matter  is 
decided — Friday,  the  17th,  sees  us  all  at  Rosemary  Lodge." 
So  saying,  he  hopped  up  stairs,  but  not  before  Philip's  quick 
ears  had  caught  the  whole  of  the  last  sentence.  Indeed, 
of  late  he  had  been  ever  on  the  watch  for  some  chance  in- 
formation which  might  have  reference  to  Eleanor,  whose 
long  and  unwonted  silence  had  made  him  feel  somewhat 
anxious.  And  even  as  he  walked  home  that  night,  his 
memory  I'etained  with  a  curious  tenacity  the  date  and  the 
place  of  this  reunion  of  the  Ogilvie  family.  He  recurred 
to  the  circumstance  again  and  again,  in  spite  of  the  more 
serious  thoughts  which  now  occupied  him,  and  almost 
wished  that  there  had  been  some  truth  in  the  sneering  re- 
marks of  Mr.  Pennythorne  as  to  his  ov.'n  future  invitation 
to  Rosemary  Lodge. 

There  is  an  old  jS^orse  fable  about  the  Nornir,  or  Fates, 
who  sit  weaving  the  invisible  threads  of  human  destiny, 
stretching  them  from  heaven  to  earth,  winding  them  in 
and  out  about  man's  feet,  intercepting  and  intervolving 
him  wherever  he  moves.  One  of  these  gossamers,  stirred 
by  the  breath  of  Philip's  idle  wish,  thereupon  fell  in  his 
pathway  and  entangled  him.  But  the  web,  at  first  light 
as  air,  grew  afterward  into  a  heavy  coil,  woven  of  the  dark- 
est fibres  with  which  humanity  is  bound. 


THE    OGILYIES.  201 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

You  may  rise  early,  go  to  bed  late,  study  hard,  read  much,  and  devoiu' 
the  marrow  of  the  best  authors ;  and  when  you  have  done  all,  be  as  mea^ 
gre  in  regard  of  true  and  useful  knowledge  as  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  after 
they  had  eaten  the  tat  ones. — BiSHor  Sakdekson. 

I  DO  not  think  any  poet  or  novelist  has  ever  immortal- 
ized that  curious  place  Avell  known  to  all  dabblers  in  liter- 
ature or  science,  the  Reading-room  at  the  British  Museum. 
Yet  there  is  hardly  any  spot  more  suggestive.  You  pass 
out  of  the  clear  daylight  into  large,  gloomy,  ghostly  rooms, 
the  walls  occupied  by  the  mummied  literature  of  some  cen- 
turies, arranged  in  glass  cases.  You  see  at  various  tables 
scores  of  mute  readers,  who  sometimes  lift  up  a  glance  as 
you  pass,  and  then,  like  Dante's  ghosts  in  Purgatory,  re- 
lapse into  their  penance.  Indeed,  the  whole  scene,  with 
the  spectral  attendants  flitting  to  and  fro,  and  the  dim 
vista  extending  beyond  the  man  Avho  takes  the  checks 
(alas  for  poetic  diction  !),  might  easily  be  imagined  some 
Hades  of  literature,  where  all  erring  pen-guiders  and  brain- 
workers  w'ere  doomed  to  expiate  their  evil  deeds  by  an 
eternity  of  reading.  Not  only  the  lover  of  poetic  idealiza- 
tion, but  the  moralizing  student  of  human  nature  would 
find  much  food  for  thought  in  the  same  reading-room.  Con- 
sider what  hundreds  of  literary  laborers  have  toiled  wdthin 
these  walls  !  Probably  nearly  all  the  clever  brains  in  the 
three  kingdoms  have  worked  here  at  some  time  or  other — 
for  nobody  ever  comes  to  the  reading-room  for  amusement. 
If  a  student  had  moral  courage  enough  to  ask  for  the  last 
new  novel,  sui-ely  the  ghosts  of  sombre  ponderous  folios 
would  rise  np  and  frown  him  into  annihilation.  The  book 
of  signatures — where  every  new  comer  is  greeted  by  the 
politest  of  attendants,  handing  him  the  most  detestable  of 
pens — is  in  itself  a  rich  collection  of  autographs,  compris- 
ing almost  every  celebrated  name  which  has  risen  year  by 


202  THE    OGILVIES. 

year,  and  many— oh,  how  many !— tliat  the  world  has  never 
chronicled  at  all. 

The  Keading-rooni  is  fertile  in  this  latter  class — meek 
followers  of  science,  who  toil  after  her  and  for  her,  day  by 
day,  and  to  v.'hom  she  only  gives  her  livery  of  rags.  You 
may  distinguish  at  a  glance  one  of  these  habitues  of  the 
|)lace,shabby,at times  almost  squalidin  appearance,plunged 
up  to  the  ears  in  volumes  as  rusty  and  as  ancient  as  him- 
self At  times  he  is  seen  timidly  propitiating  some  attend- 
ant with  small  fragments  of  whispering  conversation,  list- 
ened to  condescendingly,  like  the  purring  of  a  cat  which 
has  become  a  liarmless  household  appendage.  Possibly  the 
poor  old  student  has  come  daily  year  after  year,  growing 
ever  older  and  shabbier,  until  at  last  the  attendants  mis^ 
him  for  a  week.  One  of  them  perhaps  sees  in  the  papers  a 
death,  or  some  mournful  coroner's  inquest,  and,  recollecting 
the  name,  identifies  it  as  that  of  the  old  bookworm.  Then 
there  is  a  few  minutes'  talk  by  the  ticket-keepers'  den  at 
the  end  of  the  rooms — one  or  two  of  the  regular  frequent- 
ers are  told  of  the  fact,  and  utter  a  careless  "Poor  old  fel- 
low, he  seemed  v.'earing  out  of  late  !"— the  books  put  by 
for  his  daily  use  are  silently  replaced,  and  one  more  atom 
of  disappointed  humanity  is  blotted  from  the  living  world. 

This  illustrative  exordium  may  be  considered  as  herald^ 
ing  the  advent  of  a  newMuseumite  in  the  person  of  Philip 
Wychnor.  Speculations  something  like  the  foregoino-  oc- 
cupied him  during  the  time  that  he  was  awaiting  the  ask- 
ed-for  book,  and  trying  to  discover  among  the  thick-set 
plantation  of  heads — brown,  black,  fair,  red,  and  gray — 
young,  old,  ugly,  handsome,  patrician,  and  plebeian  —  the 
identical  cranium  of  his  new  acquaintance, David  Drysdale, 
First  he  thought  of  promenading  the  long  alleys  and  peer- 
ing over  every  table,  but  this  sort  of  running  the  gauntlet 
was  too  much  for  his  nerves.  So,  inquiring  of  the  head  at- 
tendant— the  tutelary  Lar  of  the  place,  who  knew  every 
body  and  helped  every  body — a  sort  of  literary  lion's  i)ro- 
vider,  with  good-nature  as  unfoiling  and  universal  as  his 
information — Philip  soon  learned  the  whereabouts  of  old 


THE    OGILVIES.  203 

Drysdale.  There  lie  was,  with  his  hald  head  peering  from 
a  semicircle  of  most  formidable  books,  looking  by  the  day- 
lio-ht  a  little  older  and  a  little  more  rusty  in  attire.  He 
greeted  his  young  friend  with  a  pleased  look,  and  began  to 
talk  in  the  customary  Museum  under  tone.  It  was  a  drow- 
sy murmur,  such  as  a  poet  woidd  liken  to  the  distant  hum- 
ming of  the  Hybla  bees;  and  perhaps  the  simile  is  not  in- 
apt with  regard  to  this  curious  literary  hive, 

"  Glad  to  see  you  here,  my  young  friend — very  glad — 
shows  you're  in  earnest,"  said  Di-ysdale.  "  Ever  been  here 
before  ?" 

Philip  answered  in  the  negative. 

"Isn't  it  a  fine  place — a  grand  place?  Fancy  miles  of 
books,  stratum  upon  stratum  :  what  a  glorious  literary 
formation !  Excuse  me,"  he  added,  smiling,  "but  I've  been 
reading  geology  all  the  morning,  and  then  I  always  catch 
myself '  talking  shop,''  as  some  would  elegantly  express  it. 
You  don't  study  the  science,  I  believe  !" 

"No,"  said  Philip;  "the  earth's  beautiful  outside  is 
enough  for  rae ;  I  never  wish  to  dive  beneath  it." 

"  Mistaken  there,  my  good  sir,"  answered  the  other,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  reproof;  "you  should  try  to  learn  a  little  of 
every  thing.  I  always  do.  When  I  hear  of  any  science  or 
study,  I  feel  quite  uncomfortable  until  I  have  mastered  it, 
or  at  least  kno-w  enough  of  it  to  form  a  judgment  on  the 
remainder.  You  would  be  astonished  at  the  heterogene- 
ous mass  I  have  collected  here" — he  pointed  to  his  fore- 
head— "  and  I'm  still  working  on.  Indeed,  I  should  lament 
something  like  Alexander  the  Great,  when  he  reached  the 
world's  end,  if  I  thought  there  wei-e  no  more  sciences  for 
me  to  conquer.  But  that  is  not  likely,"  said  the  j)hiloso- 
pher,  with  an  air  of  great  consolation,  as  he  eyed  affection- 
ately the  pile  of  books  that  surrounded  him,  Philip  hoped 
lie  was  not  interrupting  any  work, 

"  Bless  you,  no  !     I  can  settle  to  it  again  directly." 

"  This  would  seem  a  capital  place  for  the  study,  not  only 
of  books,  but  of  human  nature,"  observed  Philip.  "  I  nev- 
er saw  such  a  collection  of  odd  people." 


204  THE    OGILVIES. 

Drysdale  laughed.  "  Yes,  I  believe  we  are  an  odd  set — ■ 
we  don't  care  at  all  for  our  outward  man.  There  lies  the 
diiference  between  your  man  of  science,  the  regular  old 
bookworm,  and  your  man  of  genius — a  poet,  for  instance. 
The  latter  sort  has  the  best  of  it,  for  with  him  the  soul  has 
greater  influence  over  the  body.  I  never  knew  a  genius 
yet — mind  you  !  I  use  tlie  word  in  its  largest  sense — who 
did  not  bear  with  him,  either  in  face,  or  person,  or  in  a  cer- 
tain inexplicable  grace  of  manner,  the  patent  of  nobility 
which  Heaven  has  bestowed  upon  him,  while  the  hard- 
working grubbers  in  science  and  acquired  learning  often 
find  the  mud  sticking  to  them.  Their  pursuits  are  too 
much  of  this  world  to  let  them  soar  like  those  light-winged 
fellows.  One  class  is  the  quicksilver  of  earth — the  other, 
its  plain,  useful  iron.  You  couldn't  do  well  without  either, 
I  fancy — eh  ?"  The  old  j)hilosopher  rubbed  his  hands,  and, 
pausing  in  his  oration,  sat  balancing  himself  on  the  edge 
of  one  of  those  comfortable  chairs  with  vvhich  a  benign 
government  indulges  Museum-frequenters.  Philip,  much 
amused,  tried  to  draw  the  conversation  into  its  original 
channel. 

"  You  have  a  few  fair  students  also ;  I  see  a  sprinkling 
of  bonnets  here  and  there." 

Drysdale  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Ah!  yes.  Much 
good  may  it  do  them.  Some  of  them  seem  to  Avork  hard 
enough,  poor  little  souls  !  but  tliey  had  far  better  be  at 
home  making  puddings.  I  don't  like  learned  women  in 
general — not  that  I  mean  women  of  real  intellect,  regular 
workers  in  literature  ;  but  small  philosophers  in  petticoats, 
just  dipping  their  pretty  feet  into  the  cold  water  of  the 
sciences,  and  talking  as  if  they  had  taken  the  whole  bath. 
Here's  one  of  them !"  added  the  old  gentleman,  with  visi- 
ble discomfiture,  as  a  diminutive  dame  in  all  the  grace  of 
fashionable  costume  floated  up  the  centre — aisle  Ave  Avere 
about  to  Avrite,  and  may  still  do  so,  considering  Avhat  a 
great  temple  of  literature  Ave  are  now  describing. 

•'Ah  !  Drysdale,  you  are  just  the  very  person  I  Avant," 
lisped  the  ncAA^-comer;  and  Philip  at  once  recognized  both 


THE    OGILVIES.  205 

face  and  voice  as  belonging  to  the  lady  he  had  once  glanced 
at  in  Mr.  Pennythorne's  hall.  He  began  to  notice  with 
some  curiosity  the  Avell-known  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Rather  sur- 
prised was  he  to  find  so  stylish  a  dame  on  terms  of  conde- 
scending fomiliarity  with  old  David  Drysdale.  He  did  not 
know  that  lion-hunters  often  prefer  for  their  menageries 
the  most  rugged  and  eccentric  animals  of  that  royal  breed. 
Besides,  the  shabbiness  and  singularities  of  the  queer-look- 
ing philosopher  were  tolerated  every  where,  even  among 
the  elegant  clique  who  honored  literature  by  their  patron- 
age. 

Philip  Wychnor  was  too  courteous  to  gratify  his  curi- 
osity by  much  open  obseiwation,  still  he  could  not  but  be 
amused  by  the  visit  of  this  fair  devotee  to  literature.  The 
excellent  presiding  Lar  before  mentioned,  who  was  espe- 
cially the  good  genius  of  feminine  bookworms,  found  him- 
self perpetually  engaged  in  foraging  out  for  her  ponderous 
volumei^  which  she  carelessly  turned  over — to  the  imminent 
peril  of  her  delicate  lemon-colored  gloves  —  and  then  as* 
carelessly  threw  aside.  One  or  two  quiet  elderly  readers 
at  the  other  side  of  the  table  had  their  studies  grievously 
interrupted  by  the  quick,  sharp  voice,  and,  no  doubt,  de- 
voutly wished  all  female  literati,  and  this  one  especially, 
in  some  distant  paradise  of  fools  not  particularly  specified. 
At-  last  Mrs.  Lancaster  began  to  look  about  her,  and  talk 
in  an  under  tone  to  David  Drysdale.  Wychnor  thought 
it  was  some  literary  secret,  and  with  quite  needless  delV 
cacy  made  for  himself  an  errand  to  the  catalogue-stand. 

Now  Mrs.  Lancaster,  besides  her  widely  professed  admi- 
ration for  literature,  had  a  slight  mania  for  Art — at  least 
so  she  said,  and  was  forever  hunting  up  models  of  living 
physical  perfection  wherewith  to  fill  her  drawing-rooms. 
She  had  been  watching  for  some  time  Philip's  exquisitely- 
marked  profile  as  he  stooped  over  his  book,  and  now  in- 
quired, "  By-the-by,  Drysdale" —  (Mrs.  Lancaster  affected, 
in  common  with  many  literary  ladies,  the  disagreeable  and 
mannish  custom  of  addressing  her  male  acquaintance  with- 
out the  Mr.) — "by-the-by,  Drysdale,  who  is  that  clever- 


206  THE    OGILVIES. 

looking,  handsome  youth — he  who  was  talking  to  you  whert 
I  came  in  ?" 

With  all  his  unvrorldliness,  old  David  liad  a  great  deal 
of  shrewdness,  especially  with  regard  to  other  people.  He 
knew  how  almost  impossible  it  is  for  a  literary  man  to 
work  his  way  without  enteriag  into  the  general  society  of 
the  fraternity,  and  making  personal  interests,  which  mate- 
rially aid  his  fortune,  though  it  is  his  own  foult  if  he  suffer 
them  to  compromise  his  independence.  Therefore  Drys- 
dale  saw  at  once  what  an  advantage  it  would  be  to  Wych- 
nor  to  gain  admission  into  Mrs.  Lancaster's  clever  circle. 
Immediately  he  set  to  work  to  clear  the  way  by  judicious 
commendations, 

"Really,  is  he  so  very  talented?  I  knew  I  was  right. 
My  instinct  never  fails  !"  exclaimed  the  gratified  lady. 
And  she  began  to  debate  upon  and  criticise  Pliilip's  face 
and  head,  in  order  to  prove  her  full  acquaintance  with 
physiognomy  and  phrenology.  Old  Drj^sdale  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  listened.  lie  never  wasted  words  on 
persons  of  Mrs,  Lancaster's  stamp — "preferring,"  as  he 
often  said,  "  to  let  himself  be  pelted  with  swine's  chaff 
rather  than  cast  his  own  pearls  before  them." 

However,  as  soon  as  Philip  returned  to  the  table,  he  per- 
formed  the  introduction  for  which  the  mistress  of  Rose- 
mary Lodge  was  so  anxious.  Wychnor  Avas  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  himself  graciously  invited  to  accompany 
her  "  excellent  friend  Drysdale"  to  join  the  constellation  of 
literary  stars  that  were  to  illuminate  the  Lodge  v/ith  their 
presence  on  the  identical  IVth. 

"  By-the-by,  Drysdale,"  continued  the  lady,  "  you,  who 
have  such  a  fancy  for  youthful  geniuses,  will  meet  one  that 
night — a  Miss  Katharine  Ogilvie."  Here  Philip's  heart 
beat  quicker — it  always  did  so  at  the  name  of  Ogilvie, 
Mrs,  Lancaster  went  on,  "She  is  wonderfully  clever,  and 
so  lovely ! — quite  a  Corinne  at  nineteen,  I  never  was  more 
surprised  than  when  I  met  her  last  week;  for, three  years 
ago,  I  Avas  staying  at  her  father's.  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie  of 
Summerwood  Park,  and  she  seemed  the  most  ordinary  lit- 
tle c'irl  imao'inable." 


THE    OGILVIES.  207 

"Humph  !  dare  say  she  is  the  same  now.  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter's swans  are  always  geese,"  muttered  Drysdale,  in  an 
aside. 

Philip's  heart  beat  quicker  than  ever,  for  he  remembered 
Eleanor's  Christmas  visit  long  ago. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  as  she  prepared  to  depart,  turned  from 
the  imperturbable  old  philosopher  to  her  new  acquaintance, 
"lam  sure  a  man  of  genius  like  yourself,  Mr.  Wychnor,  will 
be  delighted  Avith  my  young  improvisatrice,  as  I  call  her; 
indeed,  she  is  quite  an  ideal  of  romance.  Only  be  sure  you 
do  not  fall  in  love  with  her,  for  peo])le  say  she  is  engaged 
to  a  cousin  of  hers,  who  is  always  at  Summerwood.  A^iro- 
pos,  Drysdale,  in  this  said  Christmas  visit  our  friend  Lyne- 
don  accompanied  me.  You  know  him — indeed,  you  know 
every  body.  He  lias  not  written  to  me  this  long  while. 
What  has  become  of  him  ?" 

"Can't  say,  and  don't  care,"  replied  the  old  man,  rather 
gruffly,  for  his  patience  was  getting  exhausted. 

"You  never  chanced  to  meet  Paul  Lynedon,  Mr. Wych- 
nor?" Philip  made  a  negative  motion  of  the  head,  and  the 
voluble  lady  continued.  "  You  would  have  exactly  suited 
each  other — he  was  sucli  a  charming  creature — so  full  of 
talent.  But  I  must  not  stay  chattering  here.  Adieu  !  an 
revoii:^''  And  Mrs.  Lancaster  vanished  gracefidly  from  tlie 
reading-room. 

David  Drysdale  shook  himself  witli  an  air  of  great  relief, 
somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  an  old  house-dog  round  whose 
nose  a  troublesome  fly  has  been  buzzing.  Then  he  settled 
down  among  his  books  in  a  silence  which  Philip  did  not 
feel  inclined  to  interrupt. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  idle  talk  had  stiriT<l  a  few  conflicting 
thoughts  in  the  young  man's  bosom.  With  a  natural  curi- 
osity, he  looked  forward  to  seeing  this  young  cousin  of 
Eleanor's,  who,  as  report  said,  was  likely  to  become  her  sis- 
ter too.     Forgetting  how  false  rumor  sometimes  is,  and 

how  complete  was  the  seclusion  of  L ,  he  felt  surprised 

— almost  vexed — that  his  affianced  had  not  alluded  to  the 
fact.     He  wondered  also  that  she  had  never  made  mention 


208  THE    OGILVIES. 

at  any  time  of  this  fascinating  Paul  Lynedon,  wBom  she 
must,  nevertheless, have  intimately  known  at  Summerwood. 
It  might  have  been  an  error  in  judgment,  and  yet  it  was 
from  a  noble  and  truly  feminine  delicacy  that  Eleanor  nev- 
er told  her  betrothed  of  the  love  she  had  refused.  She  had 
none  of  that  contemptible  vanity  which  would  fain  carry 
about  as  a  trophj^  a  string  of  trampled  and  broken  hearts, 
ready  to  flourish  them  before  the  eyes  of  the  accepted  lover, 
should  the  warning  be  required.  Even  amidst  her  own 
happiness  she  had  sighed  over  the  wound  she  -gave,  and 
kept  the  knowledge  of  that  rejected  love  sacred  from  all, 
as  every  generous,  delicate-minded  woman  will.  But  her 
silence  now  aroused  more  than  one  doubt  in  the  mind  of 
Philip  Wychnor.  This  was  wrong ;  he  knew  it,  too ;  yet, 
being  restless  and  uneasy,  framed  excuses  for  this  idle  jeal- 
ousy over  every  action  of  his  beloved  Eleanor,  But  Philip 
Wychnor  w^as  a  man,  after  all,  and  no  man  living  ever  can 
trust  as  a  woman  does. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 

My  mind  misgives 
Some  consequence,  3-et  hanging  in  the  stars, 
Will  bitterly  begin  its  fearful  date 
From  this  night's  revels. — Shakspeare. 

Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 
Till  it  burst.     *         *         * 
—I  fell— flooded  mth  a  Dark 

In  the  silence  of  a  swoon. 
"V\nien  I  rose,  still  cold  and  stark, 

There  was  night  I — E.  B.  Browning. 

Nothing  could  be  better  arranged  than  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
soirees.  She  collected  and  grouped  her  guests  as  artistic^ 
ally  as  a  fashionable  houquetii,re  disposes  her  flowers.  They 
were  not  all  literary  people — far  from  it :  the  hostess  was 
too  well  acquainted  with  the  idiosyncrasies  and  peculiari- 
ties of  the  faternity  to  risk  any  such  heterogeneous  com- 
mixture.    She  adroitly  sprinkled  here  and  there  a  few  of 


THE    OGILVIES,  209 

those  fair,  scentless  blossoms — evening-party  demoiselles — 
who  might  be  considered  as  hired  only  for  the  night,  like 
the  flowers  on  the  staircase,  to  adorn  the  mansion.  And 
then  amid  the  gay  cluster  of  oixlinary  humanities  might  be 
distinguished  some  homely-looking  plant,  whose  pungent 
aroma  nevertheless  diflused  itself  throughout  the  whole 
parterre — the  poet  of  nature's  making,  who  brought  into 
refined  saloons  all  the  freshness,  and  a  great  deal  of  the 
mud,  from  the  clods  among  which  he  was  born.  There, 
too,  was  the  dandy  author,  who,  when  deigning  to  handle 
the  pen,  considered  literature  much  the  obliged  party — the 
keen  sarcastic  wit,  the  porcupine  of  society,  whom  every 
body  hated,  yet  treated  with  respect  for  fear  of  his  quills 
— and  the  timid  asj)irant,  who  sat  in  a  corner  and  watched 
the  scene  with  reverent  and  somewhat  fearful  eyes.  All 
these  were  ingeniously  amalgamated,  so  as  to  form  the 
very  perfection  of  reunions.  Nobody  felt  obliged  to  "  talk 
blue ;"  and  while  the  heavy  conversationalists  had  full  play 
in  snug  corners,  there  were  interludes  of  dancing  and  mu- 
sic to  lighten  the  hearts  and  heels  of  the  rest. 

Philip  Wychnor  w^atched  this  moving  panorama  with 
considerable  interest.  At  Oxford,  the  compulsion  of  hon- 
est poverty  and  his  own  inclinations  had  caused  him  to 
lead  the  life  of  a  very  hermit :  in  fact,  to  few  young  men 
of  his  age  could  that  great  raree-show,  Society,  appear  so 
new.  David  Drysdale,  who  kept  close  beside  him,  took 
quite  a  pleasure  in  witnessing  the  almost  child-like  amuse- 
ment of  his  young  acquaintance,  and  in  pointing  out  to  hiii> 
the  various  concomitants  which  made  up  the  soiree. 

"  There  stand  the  Merry-go-rounds,"  said  he,  pointing  to 
a  curiously-mingled  group,  in  v.'hich  the  most  prominent 
were  a  very  big  man  raid  a  very  little  one.  "They  all  be- 
long to  the  Merry-go-round  paper — you  may  know  that  by 
their  talk,  a  Avhole  artillery  of  fun  and  jest.  But  they  have 
a  character  for  wit  to  keep  up,  and  must  do  it,  well  or  ill, 
like  the  kings'  fools  of  old." 

"Amateur  assumers  of  the  cap  and  bells,  I  presume?'* 
observed  Philii),  smiling. 

K 


210  THE    OGILVIES. 

"Just  SO,  but  not  all  of  them.  Look  at  that  man  to  whom 
every  body  listens  whenever  he  opens  his  lips.  He  buzzes 
about  like  a  wasp,  and,  wherever  he  settles  for  a  minute,  it 
is  ten  chances  to  one  that  he  does  not  leave  a  sting  behind. 
But  he  is  a  clever  fellow,  nevertheless — brimming  over  with 
wit ;  his  tongue  and  his  pen  are  like  lancets ;  and  if  they 
do  bleed  Dame  Society  pretty  freely,  it  is  most  frequently 
to  keep  down  the  old  lady's  own  plethora,  and  remove  all 
bad  humors." 

"Who  is  that  gay  butterfly  of  a  young  man,  who  seems 
to  set  himself  in  opposition  to  your  wasp  ?  He  keeps  up 
an  incessant  rattle  of  small  witticisms,  chiefly  directed  to 
the  ladies,  with  whom  he  appears  quite  a  pet." 

"Did  you  ever  know  true  coin  tliat  had  not  its  counter- 
feit? He  is  a  small  mimic  of  the  other — a  mushroom  wit, 
sprung  up  in  a  night  out  of  the  very  refuse-bed  of  literature. 
He  belongs  to  the  Young  England  school  of  authorship — 
impudent  jesters  who  turn  the  most  earnest  things  of  life 
into  a  flirce — who  would  parody  Milton,  and  write  a  Comic 
History  of  the  Bible. 

I'd  put  in  every  lionest  hand  a  \vliip 

To  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  world," 

cried  worthy  old  David,  Avith  an  energy  that,  while  it  made 
Philip  smile,  touched  him  deeply.  That  one  grain  of  true 
earnestness  seemed  to  purify  the  whole  heartless,  w^orldly 
mass  around  him.  The  young  man  grew  stronger  in  heart 
and  purpose  every  hour  of  his  association  Avith  Drysdale. 

"There  are  two  of  another  set.  You  Avill  find  all  this 
literary  world  divided  into  sets,"  observed  the  old  philos- 
opher, glancing  toward  a  couple  who  Avere  talking  together 
a  little  aloof  from  the  rest. 

"  You  mean  that  patriarchal  old  man,  Avith  a  grand,  mass- 
ive head,  and  the  younger  one,  Avith  hair  parted  in  the  cen- 
tre, and  a  face  that  reminds  one  of  Raphael's  angels?  I 
have  been  Avatching  them  some  time — they  talk  so  earnest- 
ly, and  are  such  a  picturesque  couple  to  look  at ;  only  I 
don't  like  that  outre  affected  style  of  dress." 

"Yet  there  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  them,  for  all  that- 


THE    OGILVIES.  211 

They  belong  to  the  Progress  movement — people  sincere 
and  earnest  in  their  way,  only  they  are  ever  trying  to  move 
the  world  with  their  own  small  Archimedean  lever.  Now, 
though  I  hold  that  every  man  ought  quietly  to  put  his 
shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  give  society  a  shove  onward,  as 
far  as  he  can  in  his  petty  lifetime,  yet  I  don't  like  much 
talking  about  it.  With  these  Progress  people  it  is  often 
'great  cry  and  little  wool'  They  are  always  bemoaning, 
with  Hamlet,  that 

The  time  is  out  of  joint, 
but  rarely  attempt  to  '  set  it  right.'  " 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Philip ;  "  I  believe  less  in  uni- 
versal than  individual  movements.  If  every  man  began 
the  work  of  reformation  in  himself  first,  and  afterward  in 
his  own  circle,  there  would  be  no  need  for  public  revolu- 
tions at  all.  To  use  your  own  favorite  system  of  symboli- 
zation,  Mr.  Drysdale,"  continued  the  young  man,  with  a 
good-humored  smile,  "  I  think  that  quietly  undermining  a 
rock  is  far  better  than  blowing  it  up  with  gunpowder,  be- 
cause in  the  latter  case  you  never  know  how  far  the  work 
of  destruction  may  extend,  and  you  run  a  chance  of  being- 
knocked  on  the  head  by  the  fragments."  Drysdale  patted 
his  young  friend  on  the  arm  with  an  air  of  gratified  ap- 
proval. "That's  right — quite  right!  Learn  to  think  for 
yourself,  and  don't  be  afraid  of  speaking  what  you  tliink, 
my  dear  boy — excuse  me  for  calling  you  so,  but  you  are  a 
bov  to  me."  y 

Philip  was  al)0ut  to  express  his  sincere  pleasure  in  this 
new  friendship  of  theirs,  when  Mrs.  Lancaster  glidedthrough 
the  still  increasing  crow'd. 

"  Drysdale,  where  are  you  ?  Here  in  a  corner  !  Fie,  fie  ! 
when  every  one  wants  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  wish  I  could  return  the  compliment,  ma'am,"  answer- 
ed the  old  man,  abruptly  enough,  for  any  cynical  propen- 
sities he  had  were  always  drawn  out  by  the  flippant  tongue 
of  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"  Now  really,  that's  too  bad  !  What  a  nice,  good,  dis- 
agreeable, comical  creature  you  are  !     Here  is  your  old  ac- 


212  THE    OGILVIES. 

qnaintance,  Mr.  Pennythorne,  asking  for  you,"  And  as  she 
spoke  the  individiuil  alhided  to  made  his  appearance,  shook 
hands  witli  Drysdale,  and  then,  turning  round,  cauglit  sight 
of  Fhilij^  Wychnor.  A  slight  elevation  of  the  eyebrows 
marked  Mr.  Pennythorne's  extreme  astonishment  at  the 
recognition,  hut  he  Avas  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  to 
seem  discomjjosed  by  any  thing.  Pie  hopped  up  to  Philip 
with  a  cordial  greeting. 

"My  dear  young  friend — delighted  to  meet  you  so  un- 
expectedly, and  in  such  charming  society  too.  And  so  you 
know  that  excellent  old  Drysdale — how  surprising !  how 
pleasant !"  And  he  bustled  away  to  another  part  of  the 
room,  wondering  within  liimself  what  the (Mr.  Penny- 
thorne's expletives  were  ahvays  confined  to  mere  thoughts) 
brought  the  young  rascal  there. 

"You  must  come  with  me,  Drysdale,"  pursued  Mrs. Lan- 
caster, laying  her  tiny  white-gloved  hand  on  the  rough 
coat-sleeve  of  the  shaggy-looking  old  fellow,  who  looked  in 
that  gay  assemblage  something  like  the  dog  Diogenes 
amidst  the  train  of  canine  Alexanders  in  Landseer's  pic- 
tui-e;  "I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  young  Corinne — 
my  improvisatrice.''''  But  Drysdale  still  hung  back.  He 
had  an  unpleasant  recollection  of  innumerable  damty  MSS. 
and  scores  of  young-ladyish  poems  with  whicli  he  had  been 
deluged  in  consequence  of  doing  the  civil  to  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter's \iteYa.i'y  p)'ote(/ees. 

"  It  is  I  who  particularly  wish  to  be  introduced  to  Mr. 
Drysdale,"  said  a  sweet  young  voice  behind ;  and  the  old 
man  could  not  resist  either  the  voice  or  the  bewitchino; 
smile  that  adorned  the  lips  thi'ough  which  it  passed. 

Philip  turned  gently  round,  and  looked  at  Katharine 
Ogilvie.  She  was  indeed  dazzlingly  beautiful — the  more 
so,  perhaps,  from  the  extreme  simplicity  of  her  white  dress, 
which  contrasted  strongly  Avith  the  belaced  and  befurbe- 
lowed  throng  around.  Her  small,  Greek-shaped  head  had 
no  ornament  but  the  magnificent  purple-black  hair,  which 
was  gathered  up  in  a  knot  behind,  giving  to  her  classic 
features  a  character  more  classic  still.     But  there  was  no 


XHE    OGlLVIES,  213 

impassive  marble  Leauty  about  the  face.  It  was  all  wom- 
an—  the  lips  now  dimpling  Avitli  smiles,  now  trembling 
with  ill-concealed  emotion,  as  some  sudden  thought  passed 
through  her  mind.  How  different  from  the  shy  girl  who, 
years  before,  had  moved  timidly  amidst  the  scene,  in  the 
same  place  ! 

Katharine  felt  it  so  ;  and  her  heart  was  full — running 
over  with  the  delicious  memories  that  every  moment  re- 
newed, and  dilating  with  a  joyful  pride  as  she  compared 
the  present  with  the  past.  She  felt  she  was  beautiful — 
she  saw  how  every  eye  followed  her  admiringly  ;  she  knew 
that  even  over  that  gay  and  gifted  circle  the  spell  of  her 
talents  and  her  fascinations  was  cast.  She  gloried  in  the 
knowledge. 

"  He  would  not  be  ashamed  of  me  now,"  she  murmured 
to  herself,  with  a  proud,  happy  smile.  "  No  ;  when  he 
comes  again  he  will  find  Katharine  not  unworth^^  even  of 
him."  And  the  tliouglit  kindled  a  new  lustre  in  her  eyes, 
and  lent  an  unwonted  softness  to  every  tone  of  her  melo- 
dious voice.  How  hap])y  she  was  !  how  she  seemed  to  cast 
every  where  around  her  an  atmosphere  of  gentle  gladness  ! 
She  inclined  particularly  toward  old  David  Drysdale ;  and 
he,  on  his  part,  thawed  into  positive  enthusiasm  beneath 
the  sunshine  of  her  influence. 

"I  wished  much  to  see  you,  Mr.  Drysdale,"  she  said  at 
last,  though  someAvhat  timidly,  Avhen  the  conversation  with 
him  had  grown  into  quite  a  friendly  chat.  "I  have  heard 
of  you  before,  from — from  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours  ;" 
and  the  quick  color  rose  slightly  in  her  check. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  I  am  really  honored — delighted !" 
answered  the  old  man,  charmed  almost  into  compliment. 
"  Who  could  it  be  ?"  Katharine's  lips  trembled  while  they 
framed  the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

"Lynedon — Ah!  I  remember  him — fine  fellow  to  look 
at,  with  a  great  deal  in  him.  But  ours  was  a  verj^  sliglit 
acquaintance.  I  liave  heard  nothing  of  him  sinc(>  he  went 
abroad.  Ever  been  abroad.  Miss  OgilvieV"  added  Drys- 
dale, unconsciously  turning  the  conversation ;   at  which 


214  THE    OGILVIES. 

Katharine  felt  a  vague  disappointment,  for  it  was  pleasant 
even  to  hear  a  stranger  utter  the  name  that  was  the  music 
of  her  heart. 

"No,"  she  rei^lied.  "I  know  scarcely  any  thing  of  the 
world  except  from  books." 

"And  perhaps  the  knowledge  thus  gained  is  the  best, 
after  all ;  at  least  so  says  my  young  friend  Philip  Wychnor 
here,"  said  Drysdale,  good-naturedly  turning  to  where  his 
ncAv  fovorite  sat  aloof  Philip  was  trying  to  alleviate  his 
rather  dull  position  wi.tli  looking  over  various  books. 

"Philip  Wychnor!"  eclioed  Katharine,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting the  name.  It  caught  the  owner's  ear,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  two  young  people  met.  "  Tliis  must  be  Eleanor's 
friend;  Hugh  told  me  he  was  in  London,"  she  thought  to 
herself;  and  an  instinct  of  something  better  than  curiosity 
made  her  ask  for  an  introduction. 

"I  believe  you  are  not  quite  unknown  to  me,  Mr. Wych- 
nor," said  Katharine,  as  Philip — answering  Drysdale's  sum- 
mons— came  up  to  them.  "Are  you  not  a  friend  of  my 
two  cousins,  Hugh  and  Eleanor  Ogilvie  ?"  Philip  answer- 
ed in  the  affirmative. 

Katharine  thought  liis  hesitation  sprang  from  the  shy- 
ness of  one  unused  to  society;  women  have  so  much  more 
self-pc/ssession  than  men.  She  tried  to  reassure  him  by 
continuing  to  talk.  "I  am  quite  delighted  to  meet  you. 
I  remember  perfectly  how  warmly  my  cousins  spoke  of 
you  —  Eleanor  especially.  You  have  known  lier  many 
years  ?" 

"  Many  years.  And  her  brother — how  is  he  ?"  continued 
Wychnor,  not  daring  to  trust  his  voice  with  a  more  direct 
question. 

"Hugh  is  quite  well,  I  believe — I  hope.  He  left  Sum- 
merwood  some  days  since,"  said  Katharine,  while  a  shadow 
of  annoyance  passed  over  her  face,  and  the  clear  brow  was 
contracted  for  a  moment. 

"  To  L ,  to  join  his  sister,  I  conclude  ?" 

"Oh  no !     Eleanor  is  gone  abroad,  you  know." 

"  Gone  abroad  ?" 


THE    OGILVIES.  215 

"Yes,  to  Florence,  witli  Mrs.  Breynton,  her  friend,  and 
your  aunt — is  she  not?  I  thouglit  of  course  you  were 
aware  of  the  fact."  Philip  felt  sick  at  heart;  muttering 
some  unconnected  words,  he  turned  to  look  for  Drysdale, 
foi-  he  had  no  power  to  sustain  the  conversation.  Howev- 
er, the  old  man  was  gone.  At  another  time  Katharine's 
curiosity  and  sympathy  would  have  been  excited,  but  now 
her  attention  was  drawn  av/ay  from  him  by  a  chance  Avord 
—  one  that,  whenever  nttered  in  her  hearing,  pierced 
through  any  buzz  of  conversation,  compelling  her  to  listen 
■ — the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

Katharine  and  Philip  chanced  to  sit  together  on  one  of 
those  round  ottomans  which  seem  made  for  double  ttte-d- 
tttes,  and  behind  them  were  a  lady  and  gentleman  chatting 
merrily. 

" Mr.  Lynedon  !"  repeated  the  latter.  "So,  my  dear 
Miss  Trevor,  you  really  know  my  excellent  friend  Paul 
Lynedon  ?" 

"  I  should  rather  say  I  Jcneio  him,  since  it  is  several  years 
since  we  met.  He  went  on  the  Continent,  I  believe  ?  A 
sudden  departure,  was  it  not.  Dr.  Saville  ?" 

"Hem!  my  dear  madam.  Therein  hangs  a  little  mys- 
tery that  I  would  not  mention  to  any  one  but  to  you,  who 
were  his  very  particular  friend.  In  fact,  poor  Lynedon 
was  in  love." 

"  You  don't  say^  so  !" 

"Oil  yes;  he  told  me  all  about  it  at  the  time — long  at- 
tachment— lady  engaged  to  another  gentleman.  But — 
heigh-ho — people's  minds  change  so.  I  think  Lynedon 
will  get  her  after  all — and  so  does  Lizzie." 

"  'All's  well  that  ends  well.'  When  is  he  likely  to  be 
married  :" 

"  Lynedon  ?  Why — though  you  must  never  breathe  a 
word  of  this — I  have  every  reason  to  believe  it  will  be  very 
soon.  Li  fact,  the  happy  event  may  have  come  off  already. 
For,  he  tells  me,  he  has  lately  met  her  abroad,  where  she 
lives  with  an  old  lady.  He  sees  her  every  day.  Sly  fel- 
low— he  says  nothing  of  the  wedding;  but  he  writes  full 


216  THE    OGILVIES. 

of  happiness.  I  think  I  have  the  letter  in  my  pocket  now 
— if  I  did  not  send  it  home  this  morning  to  Lizzie.  No ! 
here  it  is." 

Every  word  of  this  mixtnre  of  truth  and  fiilseliood  fell 
on  the  stunned  ear  of  Katharine  Ogilvie.  Yet  she  sat  im- 
movable, her  fingers  still  turning  over  the  book  on  her  lap, 
her  lips  still  fixed  in  the  courteous  smile  of  attention.  Once 
only  her  eyes  wandered,  with  uncertain  incredulousness, 
over  the  letter  which  Dr.  Saville  held.  It  was  the  known 
handwriting — his  hand  !  Passionate  in  all  her  impulses, 
she  drank  in,  undoubting,  the  horrible  truth.  Her  heart 
died  within  her,  and  was  turned  to  stone. 

The  next  moment  Dr.  Saville  moved  to  make  way  for 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  fluttered  up,  all  e^njjressemejit,  and  en- 
treated her  "  sweet  Katharine"  to  sing.  Katharine  arose, 
and  crossed  the  room  Avith  a  steady  footstep.  Phili2)Wych- 
nor  sat  down  in  her  place. 

"What  a  lovely  girl  that  is,  and  with  what  intense  feel- 
ing she  sings !"  observed  a  gentleman  to  Miss  Trevor,  as 
Katharine's  voice  came  from  the  inner  room,  clear,  full,  and 
pure,  without  one  tremulous  tone. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  sweet  creature — a  Miss  Katharine  Ogil- 
vie." 

"  Ogilvie — how  singular !  Has  she  any  sisters  ?"  inquired 
Dr.  Saville. 

"No,  I  believe  not.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Because  the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon's  old  love — the 
young  lady  he  is  going  to  marry — was  Ogilvie — Eleanor 
Oo'ilvie."  There  was  a  movement  of  the  fashionable  crowd 
as  one  of  the  guests  hastily  wound  his  way  through  and 
passed  out  at  the  door.  When  David  Drysdale  came  to  in- 
quire for  his  young  friend,  Philip  Wychnor  was  already 
gone.  Still  the  gay  throng  fluttered,  laughed,  and  chat- 
tered for  an  hour  or  two  more,  and  then  dispersed, 

"  My  dear  Katharine,  how  silent  you  are  !"  remarked  Lady 
Offilvie,  as  the  carriasje  drove  homeward. 

"  I  am  tired — so  tired  !  Let  me  alone  !"  was  the  answer, 
in  a,  cold,  sharp  tone,  that  excited  the  mild  reproach : 


THE    OGILVIES.  217 

"Really,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  will  not  get  spoiled  by  the 
admiration  you  receive."  There  was  no  reply,  and  the  two 
parents  dozed  oil'  to  sleep. 

Katharine  reached  her  own  room  and  locked  the  door. 
Then  she  flung  her  arms  above  her  head  with  a  wild  cry 
of  agony — half  sob,  half  moan,  and  fell  heavily  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

There  I  maddened.     .     .     .     Life  swept  through  me  into  fever, 

And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished — sprang,  full-statured  in  an  hour: 

-^Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish  with  apocalyptic  Never 
To  a  Pythian  height  dihites  you  and  despair  sublimes  to  power? 

E.  B.  Bkowning, 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  such  bitter  fi-uit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my  heart  be  at  its  root. 

Tennyson. 

Oh  ye  cold  clear  winter  stars,  look  down  pityingly  on 
that  solitary  chamber  where  was  poured  out  the  anguish 
of  first  passionate  love !  Erring  it  might  be — hopeless, 
visionary,  even  unmaidenly — but  it  was  pure,  nursed  in  sol- 
itude, and  hidden  from  all  human  eyes.  With  strength 
such  as  woman  only  knows,  Katharine  for  hours  had  sung, 
talked,  and  sat  in  smothered  silence ;  but  when  she  was 
alone  the  terrible  cry  of  her  despair  burst  forth.  It  was 
indeed  despair — not  pining,  girlish  sorrow — utter  despair. 
She  neither  fainted  nor  wept,  but  crouched  on  the  floor, 
swaying  to  and  fro,  her  small  hands  tightly  clenched,  her 
whole  fi-ame  convulsed  with  a  choking  agony. 

"  O  God  !  O  God  !  let  me  die !"  rose  up  the  almost  im- 
pious cry  of  the  stricken  heart  that  in  happiness  had  rarely 
known  either  thanksgiving  or  prayer,  while  moan  after 
moan  broke  the  night-stillness.  She  breathed  no  word — 
not  even  his  name.  All  that  she  felt  then  Avas  a  longing 
for  silence — darkness — death.  But  this  stupor  did  not  last. 
Her  burning,  tearless  eyes,  wandering  round  the  room,  fell 
first  on  the  flowers  she  wore — his  favorites  ;  then  on  a  book 
tie  had  given  her — alas !  her  whole  daily  life  was  full  of 

K2 


218  THE    OGILVIES. 

mementoes  of  liiiii.  At  once  the  flood  of  ancruish  burst 
forth  unrestrained. 

"  Oh,  Paul,  Paul,  must  I  think  of  you  no  more  ?  is  the  old 
time  gone  forever?  A  life  without  you,  a  future  wherein 
the  past  must  be  forgotten — where  even  to  think  of  it  Avill 
be  a  sin — a  sin.  O  God,  that  I  could  die  !"  And  then,  like 
a  lightning-flash,  came  the  thought,  that  even  that  old  time 
over  Mhich  she  njuurned  Imd  been  only  a  self-beguiling 
dream.  lie  had  nt\er  loved  her,  not  even  then;  but  he 
had  made  her  believe  so.  That  moment  a  new  storm  of 
passion  arose  in  her  lieart. 

"He  deceived  me  ;  he  deceived  me  even  then  !  I,  in  my 
madness,  have  given  him  all — life,  hope,  youth,  and  he  has 
given  me — nothing  !  Paul !  Paul  Lynedon  !"  (and,  rising 
uj),  she  stood  erect,  pride,  indignation,  scorn  on  every  feat- 
ure)," how  dared  you — how  dared  you  to  call  me  your  Kath- 
arine— your  'own  Katharine'' — when  all  the  while  you  loved 
another  woman  ?  And  now,  maybe,  you  are  laughing  with 
her  over  the  poor  foolish  girl  wlio  ti'embled  and  blushed  in 
your  sight,  Avho  had  given  you  her  whole  heart's  love,  and 
would  have  died  for  yours  !  Died?  Shall  I  die?  sliall  I? 
She  went  to  and  fro  with  quick  wild  steps,  her  cheeks  burn- 
ing like  hot  coals.  No  tears — no,  poor  wretch — to  allay  her 
misery  came  not  one  blessed  tear !  Suddenly  slie  stojiped 
before  the  mirror,  and  surveyed  herself  fi-om  head  to  foot, 
regarding  intently  the  beauty  in  which  she  had  so  gloried 
for  his  sake. 

"  Shall  he  say  that  I  pined  for  him  in  unrequited  love — I, 
Katharine  Ogilvie,  who  might  have  been  admired,  loved — ■ 
ay,  woi"shiped?"  And  her  memory  pictured  the  face  of 
Ilugh,  as  when  he  had  last  bade  her  good-by,  pale,  sad, 
with  tears  in  the  kind  eyes  tliat  had  Avatched  over  her  for 
so  many  years.  His  love,  if  rude,  was  deep  and  sincere, 
and  hardly  merited  a  rejection  so  cold  and  scornful  as  she 
had  lately  given.  Then  in  her  heart  dawned  a  purpose, 
sprung  from  the  passion  Avhich  for  the  time  had  almost 
changed  to  hate,  and  now  warped  every  feeling  of  lier  im- 
pulsive nature.    It  Avas  a  purpose  from  which  every  woman 


THE    OGILVIES.  219 

who  loves  with  a  holy  and  pure  love,  however  hopeless, 
would  turn  shuddering  aside,  feeling  how  great  was  the 
sin. 

"  You  shall  never  triumph  over  me — you,  Paul,  and  that 
wife  of  yours  !  you  shall  never  laugh  together  at  the  girl 
who  brolic  her  heart  for  you.  No ;  I  will  live — live  to 
make  the  world  know,  and  yo\i  know,  what  I  am !  Yes, 
you  shall  hear  of  me — my  beauty,  and  my  talents  !"  And 
a  strange,  bitter  laugh  of  self-derision  broke  from  those 
white  lips,  over  which,  a  few  hours  before,  had  dimpled  the 
sweet,  happ5'  girlish  smile.  But  that  never  came  again — 
no,  never  mere  ! 

You,  O  Man  !  who  with  your  honey  words  and  your  ten- 
der looks  steal  away  a  young  girl's  heart  for  thoughtless 
or  selfish  vanity,  do  you  know  what  it  is  you  do  ?  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  turn  the  jjrecious  fountain  of  woman's 
first  love  into  a  very  Marah,  wliose  bitterness  may  pervade 
her  whole  life's  current — crushing  her,  if  humble,  beneath 
the  torture  of  self-contempt,  or,  if  proud,  making  her  cold, 
heartless,  revengeful — quick  to  wound  others  as  she  herself 
has  been  wounded?  And  if  she  marry,  what  is  her  fate? 
She  has  lost  that  instinctive  worship  of  wliat  is  noble  in 
man,  which  causes  a  woman  gladly  to  follow  out  the  right- 
eous altar-vow,  and  in  "honoring"  and  "obeying"  her  lius- 
band,  to  create  the  sunshine  of  her  home.  And  this  is 
caused  by  your  deed  !  Is  not  sucli  deed  a  sin  ?  Ay,  sec- 
ond to  that  deadly  one  which  ruins  life  and  fame,  body  and 
soul !  Yet  man  does  both  toward  woman,  and  goes  smiling 
back  into  the  world,  which  smiles  at  him  again. 

It  may  be  said,  and  perhaps  truly,  that  with  most  young 
girls  love  is  a  mere  fancy  ;  that  the  pain,  if  any,  is  soon  for- 
gotten, and  so  the  infliction  of  it  becomes  no  crime.  I>ut 
how  few  hearts  are  ever  read,  even  l)y  those  nearest  and 
dearest !  There  may  be  in  the  inmost  core  of  many  a  worm 
of  which  the  M'orld  never  knows.  And  every  now  and  then, 
undistinguished  outwardly  from  the  wapid,  fickle  tribe,  may 
be  found  some  nature  like  Katharine  Ogilvie's — of  such  a 
on«,  a  blow  like  this  makes  either  a  noble  martyr-heroine, 


220  THE    OGILVIES. 

or  a  woman  over  whom  the  very  demons  gloat ;  for  they 
see  in  her  their  own  likeness — she  is  a  fallen  an2:el  too. 

The  distant  clanofinar  of  Summerwood  church-clock  re- 
sonnded  above  the  moaning  of  the  bleak  November  wind — 
one,  two,  three,  four.  Katharine  heard  the  strokes,  and 
paused.  Twelve  hours  before,  she  had  counted  them,  and 
longed  for  the  passing  of  the  brief  winter  twilight,  that  the 
pleasant  night  might  come.  It  would  perhaps  bring — not 
the  sight  of  Paul  Lynedon ;  that  she  knew  was  impossible 
— but  at  least  some  tidings  of  him.  Now — oh,  terrible 
change  !  It  was  from  a  world  of  sunshine  to  the  same 
world  encompassed  by  a  thick  darkness — not  that  of  holy, 
star-spangled  night,  but  the  darkness  of  a  heavy"  mist, 
which  pierced  into  the  very  soul.  Yet  she  must  walk 
through  it,  and  alone  !  The  dull,  blank  future  lifted  itself 
up  before  her  with  terrible  distinctness.  Year  after  year 
to  live  and  endure,  and  she  scarce  twenty  yet !  Katharine 
shuddered ;  one  wild  thought  of  death — blessed,  peaceful 
death,  seJf-summoned — entered  her  soul ;  but  that  soul  Avas 
still  too  pure  to  let  the  evil  spirit  linger  there.  Flinging 
herself  on  her  knees,  she  buried  her  head  in  the  little  white 
bed,  where  night  after  night  she  had  lain  down,  reserving 
always,  Avhen  the  day's  cares  or  pleasures  were  thought 
over,  a  few  minutes  to  muse  in  the  still  darkness  upon  her 
secret  maiden  love,  and  then  had  gone  calmly  to  sleep, 
breathing,  with  a  tender  blessing,  the  one  beloved  name. 
Now  that  name  must  never  be  uttered  more  ! 

"O  God!"  she  moaned,  forgetting  her  usual  form  of  night- 
ly prayer — alas  for  Katliarine  !  in  forms  only  had  she  learn- 
ed to  pray — "  O  God !  have  mercy — have  mercy  on  me  !" 
Let  us  speak  no  more  of  this  night's  agony.  It  was  such  as 
no  human  being  has  ever  witnessed,  or  ever  will,  for  the 
heart's  most  terrible  struggles  must  be  borne  alone.  But 
a  few  have  felt  it — God  help  those  few  !  He  only  who 
gave  to  mortal  nature  the  power  of  thus  loving,  can  guide, 
and  sway,  and  comfort  in  a  like  hour.  But  Katharine  Ogil- 
vie  knew  not  this ;  therefore,  ere  the  wild  prayer  which 
despair  had  wrung  forth  passed  from  her  lips,  its  influence 


THE    OGILVIES.  221 

had  vanished  from  her  heart.  Into  that  poor  torn  heart 
entered  misery  unknown  before  ;  and  its  chambers,  no  lon- 
ger swept  and  garnished,  became  the  habitation  of  legions 
of  evil  thoughts — to  be  exorcised  thence  no  moi'e. 

The  world's  daily  round  goes  on,  heedless  of  life,  death, 
love — the  three  elements  which  compose  its  chief  sorrows 
and  its  best  joys.  Katharine  lay  down  and  slept — yes, 
slept ;  for  terrible  suffering  often  brings  such  torpor.  In 
the  morning  she  ai'ose  and  dressed — calmly,  without  a  tear 
or  moan.  Only  once — as  she  stood  arranging  her  long, 
beautiful  hair,  in  which  she  always  took  great  pride,  for  his 
hand  had  rested  on  it — the  remembrance  struck  into  her 
heart  like  a  dagger.  She  could  have  torn  the  magnificent 
tresses  from  her  head,  she  could  have  cursed  the  beauty 
that  liad  failed  to  win  Paul  Lynedon  I  Henceforward,  if 
she  regarded  at  all  the  self-adornment  which  in  due  meas- 
ure is  charming  in  a  woman,  it  would  be,  not  from  that 
loving  desire  to  be  fair  in  one  beloved  sight,  but  from  a 
desperate,  vainglorious  pride.  She  would  drive  men  mad 
Avith  her  beauty,  dazzle  them  blind,  set  her  foot  on  their 
necks,  and  laugh  them  to  scorn  ! 

Katharine  passed  down  the  staircase.  The  study-door 
was  open,  and  her  grandfather's  great  cat  came  purring 
about  her  feet,  inviting  her  in.  But  to  cross  the  threshold 
of  the  well-known  room  !  Every  thing  in  it  cried  out  with 
a  fiend-like, mocking  voice,"Fool — fool — self-deceiving  fool! 
The  past,  the  precious  past,  is  nothing — was  nothing.  Blot 
it  out  forever !"  She  shivered,  locked  the  door,  and  fled 
doAvn  the  hall.  On  the  table  lay  some  green-house  flowers 
— the  old  gardener's  daily  offering.  Above  tliem  her  bird 
sang  to  lier  its  morning  Avelcome — the  gladder  because  the 
clear  winter  sunshine  reached  it  even  in  its  cage.  Mechan- 
ically Katharine  placed  the  flowers  in  water ;  gave  the  bird 
his  groundsel ;  stooped  down  to  stroke  her  ever-attendant 
purring  favorite — but  the  great  change  had  come.  Girl- 
hood's  simple  pleasures  were  no  more  for  her;  she  had 
reached  the  entrance  of  that  enchanted  valley  which  is 
either  paradise  or  hell — crossed  it,  and  shut  the  gate  be 
hind  her — forever. 


222  THE    OGILVIES. 

"Don't  stay  here  longer  than  you  like,  my  <lear,"  said 
Lady  Ogilvie,  as,  long  after  breakfast  was  over,  and  Sir 
Robert  had  ridden  off  to  London,  Katharine,  contrary  to 
her  custom,  lingered  in  the  room,  sitting  motionless  by  the 
fire,  with  her  hands — those  dear  active  little  hands,  gener- 
ally always  employed — folded  listlessly  on  her  lap.  She 
turned  round,  bent  her  head  assentingly,  and  then  gazed 
once  more  on  the  fire. 

"Still  here,  Katharine  !"  again  mildly  wondered  Lady 
Ogilvie,  pausing,  an  hour  after,  in  some  housekeeping  ar- 
rangements. "  Pray,  my  love,  do  not  let  me  keep  you  from 
your  studies.  I  am  not  at  all  dull  alone,  you  know;  do 
run  awaj^,  if  you  like." 

"I  can't,  mamma;  I  am  tired,"  said  Katharine,  wearily, 
"  Let  me  stay  witli  you." 

"  By  all  means,  dear  child.  Really  you  do  not  look  well ; 
come  and  lay  your  head  on  ray  lap,  as  you  know  you  al- 
ways like  to  do." 

She  drew  her  daughter  to  her  feet,  and  began  smoothing 
her  hair  with  motherly  tenderness,  talking  all  the  while  in 
her  mild,  quiet  way.  She  was  very  much  surprised  when 
Katharine,  burying  her  face  in  her  knees,  began  to  weep 
violently,  murmuring  amidst  her  sobs, 

"Oh  mother,  mother,  you  love  me — yes,  T  know  you  do! 
Tell  me  so  again.  Let  me  feel  there  is  some  one  in  the 
wide  world  who  cares  for  me." 

"My  darling  Katharine,  you  are  quite  ill.  This  comes 
of  late  hours.  Lideed,  my  child,  you  must  cease  going  to 
parties.  Tell  me  how  you  feel  exactly."  And  she  com- 
menced various  maternal  questionings  and  advice,  wliich, 
if  tender,  were  rather  prosy  and  out  of  place,  as  tliey  entire- 
ly related  to  the  physical  welfare  of  iicr  child.  Such  a 
thing  as  a  tortured  and  diseased  mind  never  entered  into 
simple  Lady  Ogilvie's  calculations. 

Katharine  understood  this,  and  drew  back  into  herself  at 
once.  Her  good  and  tender  mother  was  very  dear  to  her, 
so  far  as  natural  and  instinctive  affection  went,  but  in  all 
else  there  was  a  wide  gulf  between  them — now  wider  than 


THE    OGILVIES.  223 

ever.  Unfortunate  Katharine  !  there  was  in  the  whole 
worhl  no  tie  close  enough  to  satisfy  her  soul,  no  hand  sti'ong 
enough  to  snatch  her  from  the  abyss  into  which  she  was 
already  about  to  plunge. 

"You  shall  go  and  lie  down  again,  ray  dear,"  said  tlie 
mother.  But  Katharine  refused.  She  dared  not  be  alone, 
and  she  longed  for  an  oj^portunity  to  say  that  for  which 
she  had  nerved  herself  So,  suftering  her  mother  to  place 
her  comfortably  on  the  sofa,  she  rested  in  apparent  quiet 
for  half  an  hour.  Lady  Ogilvie  went  in  and  out  softly,  and 
then  settled  herself  to  an  occupation  which  was  always 
heavy  and  irksome  to  her — writing  a  letter.  Looking  up 
with  a  sigh,  after  five  minutes  spent  over  the  first  three 
lines,  she  saw  her  daughter's  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  her. 

"  Dear  me,  Katharine,  I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  she 
said,  trying  to  conceal  the  note. 

"No, I  can  not  sleep.    Who  are  you  writing  to, mamma?" 

"Only  to  Hugh — poor  Hugh  !  I  promised  him  I  would. 
But  you  need  not  be  angry  at  that,  my  child." 

Katharine  saw  the  opportunity  had  come:  she  seized  it 
with  a  bold,  desperate  effort.  "  Mother,  put  away  the  let- 
ter and  come  here  ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you — about  Hugh." 
Her  voice  and  face  were  both  quite  calm ;  the  mother  did 
not  see  that  under  the  folds  of  the  shawl  with  which  she 
had  covered  her  child  the  damp  hands  were  so  tightly 
clenched  that  the  mark  of  the  nails  remained  on  the  rosy 
palm. 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  about  Hugh,  my  darling;  it  was 
very  sad,  and  your  father  and  I  were  troubled  and  disap- 
pointed at  the  time,  because  we  wanted  to  see  our  Katha- 
rine happy,  and  we  liked  Hugh  so  much.  But  if  you  could 
not  love  him,  why,  you  know,  my  child,  we  shall  never  teaze 
you  any  more  on  the  subject.  Pray  be  content."  Katha- 
rine rose  up  and  looked  her  mother  in  the  face.  Years  aft- 
er, when  gentle  Lady  Ogilvie  lay  on  a  death-bed,  she  de- 
scribed that  look,  and  said  it  ever  haunted  her,  with  the 
rigid  colorless  lips,  the  dark  stony  eyes,  "  neither  smiling 
nor  sorry." 


224  THE    OGILYIES. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  girl,  "  do  not  wonder  at  me — do  not 
question  me — but  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  will  marry 
Hugh,  when  he  or  you  choose.  Write  and  tell  him  so.'' 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  for  a  moment,  as  if  the  eftort 
of  speaking  had  brought  a  pain  there — as  indeed  it  had,  a 
sharp  bodily  pain  ;  but  she  hardly  felt  it  then.  She  sat  up, 
and  bore  her  mother's  startled,  searching  glance  without 
shrinking. 

"Do  you  really  mean  what  you  say,  Katharine?  Will 
you  make  poor  Hugh — make  us  all,  so  happy  ?  Will  you 
indeed  marry  him  ?" 

"I  will."  Lady  Ogilvie,  mucli  agitated,  did  what  nine 
out  often  gentle-hearted  and  rather  weak-minded  women 
would  do  on  such  an  occasion — she  caught  her  daughter  to 
her  bosom,  and  wept  aloud.  Katharine  repulsed  not  the 
caresses,  but  she  herself  did  not  shed  a  tear.  A  laint  mis- 
giving crossed  the  mother's  mind. 

''My  darling  Katharine,  you  are  happy  yourself,  are  you 
not?  You  are  not  doing  this  merely  to  please  your  father 
and  me  ?  Much  as  we  wished  this  marriage,  we  never  will 
consent  to  the  sacrifice  of  our  child." 

"  I  am  not  sacrificing  myself,  mother." 

"Then  you  really  do  love  Hugh — not  in  a  sentimenlal, 
girlish  %vay,  but  enough  to  make  you  happy  with  him  as 
your  husband?" 

"My  husband — Hugh  ray  husband!"  muttered  Katha- 
rine, with  quivering  lips  ;  but  she  set  them  firmly  together. 
The  next  moment  lier  old  manner  returned.  "  Mother,  I 
marry  Hugh  because  I  choose ;  and  when  I  say  a  thing  I 
mean  it — ay,  and  do  it,  too.  You  know  that.  Is  this  rea- 
son sufficient?     I  can  give  half  a  dozen  more  if  you  wish." 

"No,  my  dear  love,  no.  Pray  be  quiet.  I  am  only  too 
happy — so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself" 
And  she  moved  restlessly  about,  her  eyes  continually  run- 
ning over,  even  Avhile  her  mouth  wore  its  most  contented 
smile. 

"  Now,  mamma,  come  here,"  said  Katharine  once  more, 
drawing  the  letter  from  its  hiding-place.     "Finish  this. 


THE    OGILVIES.  225 

Tell  Ilugli  that  I  have  thought  over  the -matter  again,  and 
have  changed  my  mind.  I  will  marry  him  whenever  lie 
chooses.     Only  it  must  be  soon — very  soon." 

"  How  strange  you  are,  my  love  !  You  do  not  seem  to 
feel  at  all  like  other  young  girls." 

"  Of  course  not — I  never  did.     Now  write  as  I  say." 

"I  will — I  will, dear!  Only  why  must  the  marriage  be 
so  soon  ?" 

"  Because  I  might  change  my  mind,"  said  Katharine,  bit- 
terly. "I  have  done  so  once  before.  My  nature  must  be 
very  fickle  ;  I  want  to  guard  against  it,  that  is  all.  Now 
write,  dear  mother — write." 

The  letter  was  written  and  dispatched.  Then  Katha- 
rine's strange  manner  passed  away,  and  she  seemed  calm. 
So  the  prisoner,  who  writhes  in  agony  on  his  way  to  the 
scaftbld,  on  reaching  it  mounts  with  a  firm  and  steady  step  ; 
he  shrank  from  the  doom  afar  oli';  it  comes,  and  he  can 
meet  it  without  fear. 

Lady  Ogilvie  kept  near  her  child  the  whole  day.  In 
Katharine's  demeanor  she  saw  only  the  natural  agitation 
of  a  young  girl  in  such  a  position.  She  was  most  thankful 
that  her  dear  child  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Hugh, 
such  an  excellent  young  man  as  he  was,  and  so  suitable  in 
every  respect.  This  marriage  would  nnite  the  title  and 
estate,  keep  both  in  the  family  besides,  and  prevent  Kath- 
arine's leaving  Summerwood.  Xo  doubt  they  would  bo 
very  happy ;  for  if  Katharine  was  not  positively  in  love 
with  her  cousin,  she  liked  him  well  enough,  and  it  was  al- 
ways best  to  have  most  love  on  the  husband's  side.  So 
reasoned  Lady  Ogilvie,  sometimes  communicating  her 
thoughts  aloud.  But  Katharine  received  them  coldlv,  and 
at  last  begged  her  to  change  the  subject.  The  mother, 
ascribing  this  to  natural  shyness  and  sensitiveness,  obeyed 
— as,  indeed,  she  generally  did — and  only  too  glad  was  she 
to  have  her  daughter  by  her  side  the  wliole  day. 

"You  have  quite  deserted  your  own  little  room,  though 
I  know  you  like  it  far  better  than  this  large,  dull  drawing- 


226  THE    OGILVIES. 

room.     Come,  doar  child,  let  us  both  go,  and  you  shall  sing 
for  me  in  the  study." 

"Not  there!  not  there!"  answered  Kathai-ine,  shudder- 
ing,    "I  will  not  go  into  tliat  room.     I  hate  it." 

"  Why  so?"  gravely  said  the  mother,  surpi-ised,  and  rath 
er  uneasy  at  these  sudden  whims.     Kathai-ine  recovered 
herself  in  a  moment, 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  how  fickle  I  was  ?  There  is  a  proot 
of  it."  And  she  forced  a  laugh — but  oli,  how  changed  from 
the  low,  musical  laugh  of  old!  "Now  don't  teaze  me,  there's 
a  dear  mother.  I  have  a  I'ight  to  be  fanciful,  have  I  not? 
Let  me  try  to  sing  my  whims  away."  She  began  to  ex- 
temporize, as  she  often  did,  composing  music  to  stray  poet- 
ry. First  came  an  air,  not  merely  cheerful,  but  breathing 
the  desperation  of  reckless  mirth.  It  floated  into  a  passion- 
ate lament.  When  she  ceased, her  face  was  as  white  as  mar- 
ble, and  as  rigid.  She  had  poured  out  her  whole  soul  with 
her  song ;  and,  absorbed  in  a  deep  reverie,  she  had  called 
up  the  past  befoi-e  her.  She  had  filled  the  halfdarkened, 
desolate  room  with  light,  and  music,  and  gay  laughter. 
Beside  the  dear  old  piano  she  had  seen  standing  a  tall  fig- 
ure, with  folded  arms,  and  eyes  bent  di-eamily  forward,  A 
moment,  and  she  must  shut  it  out  forever — from  heart,  and 
fancy,  and  memory.  This  song  was  the  dirge  of  her  youth 
and  its  love.  She  closed  the  instrument, and  in  that  room 
or  in  that  house  Katharine  vowed  never  to  sing  more.  She 
never  did  ! 

Worthy  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie  was  mightily  astonished, 
when  he  came  home  next  day,  to  find  his  nephew  hourly 
expected  as  a  future  son-in-law.  He  kissed  his  daughter — 
a  ceremony  performed  solemnly  at  Christmas  and  Easter, 
or  when  he  went  on  a  journey— told  her  he  was  much  grati- 
fied by  her  obedience,  and  felt  sure  she  would  be  exceed- 
ingly happy  in  her  marriage, 

"Only,"  observed  the  sedate  baronet  to  his  wife,  when 
they  were  alone  together,  "  it  would  have  saved  much 
trouble  and  annoyance  if  Katharine  had  known  her  own 
mind  at  first,  ]]ut  I  suppose  no  women — especially  youno- 
women — ever  do," 


THE    OGILVIES.  227 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
Oh  death  in  life — the  davs  that  are  no  more ! 

Tenntson. 

It  was  the  eve  of  tlie  wedding-day — the  day  which  waa 
to  unite,  in  newspaper  parlance,  "Katharine,  onl}'  child  and 
heiress  of  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie,  of  Summerwood  Park,  to  Hugh 
Ogilvie,  Esq.,  only  son  of  the  late  Captain  Francis  Ogilvie, 
of  His  3Iajesty's  Service."  Xever  was  there  a  better  match, 
and  so  said  every  gossiping  party  in  the  village,  front  tlie 
circle  round  the  blacksmith's  warm,  welcome  forge,  to  that 
round  the  doctor's  equally  welcome  tea-table.  Every  body 
had  guessed  how  it  would  end,  and  only  wondered  it  had 
not  come  ofi"  before.  All  the  world  and  his  wife  were  mak- 
ing ready  for  the  next  day ;  for  the  wedding  was  to  be  at 
the  village  church,  with  all  necessary  accompaniments  of 
green  boughs,  young  girls  dressed  in  white,  charity  chil- 
dren, etc.,  etc. 

Love  would  ever  fain  seal  its  vows  imobserved,  in  glad 
and  solemn  privacy ;  but  no  such  impediment  came  be- 
tween Sir  Robert  and  his  desire  for  a  little  aristocratic  os- 
tentation. "It  was  proper,"  he  said;  "for  the  Ogilvies 
were  always  married  and  buried  in  public,  with  due  cere- 
mony." Katharine  assented ;  and  if  there  came  a  deeper 
and  bitterer  meaning  to  the  set  smile  which  her  lips  now 
habitually  wore,  her  father  never  noticed  it.  She  let  them 
all  do  Avith  her  just  what  they  pleased  ;  so  the  joint  con- 
ductors of  the  afiair,  Lady  Ogilvie,  Mrs.  Fred  Penny thorne, 
and  Sir  Robert,  arranged  every  thing  between  them. 

On  the  wedding-eve  the  two  former  sat  with  the  young 
bride  in  her  dressing-room.  It  was  strewed  Avith  attire  of 
every  kind — laces,  silks,  and  satins,  tossed  about  in  beauti- 
ful confusion.  The  female  ministrants  at  this  shrine  had 
been  trying  on  the  wedding-dress,  and  it  hung  gracefully 


228  THE    OGILYIES. 

over  the  back  of  a  chair,  with  the  wreath  and  veil.  Lady 
Ogilvie  was  just  wiping,  for  the  thousandth  time,  her  ever- 
tearful  eyes,  and  saying  she  did  not  know  what  she  sliould 
do  without  Katharine,  even  for  a  month. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  liave  to  learn,  aunt,"  said  Mrs, 
Frederick,  who  had  been  quite  in  her  element  of  late,  ad- 
ministering consolation,  lectures,  and  advice,  with  all  the 
dignity  of  a  newly-married  lady.  "  For  my  part,  I  wonder 
that  Katharine  likes  the  thought  of  coming  back  to  Sum- 
mcrwood.  I  never  would  have  married  Frederick  at  all  if 
I  could  not  have  a  house  of  my  own." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  a  cold,  satirical  voice,  as  Katharine 
looked  up  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued  her  work, 
making  white  favors  for  some  old  servants,  Avho  had  beg- 
ged for  tliis  token  from  the  bride's  own  hands. 

"  Really,  my  dear,  how  sharply  you  take  one  up  !  You 
quite  forget  1  am  married,"  said  Mrs.  Penny thorne,  tossing 
her  liead.  "  But  I  suppose  we  must  humor  you.  Howev- 
er, things  Avill  be  different  when  you  are  settled  again  at 
Summerwood." 

"  When  I  am,"  was  the  pointed  reply. 

"When  you  are!"  echoed  Mrs.  Frederick.  "Why,  I 
thought  the  matter  was  quite  settled.  Your  father  Avishes 
it — and  your  future  husband.  Ah  !  wlien  you  are  married, 
Huo;h  will  make  you  do  whatever  he  likes." 

"Hugh  will  do  whatever  I  like,"  said  Katharine,  haughti- 
ly, and  she  knew  she  spoke  the  truth ;  the  humble,  loving 
slave  of  one  man  was  fast  becoming  the  tyrant  of  another. 
It  is  always  so.  "Ask  him  the  question  yourself,"  she  add- 
ed, as  the  bridegroom  put  his  beaming  face  in  at  the  door. 

Hugh  Ogilvie  was  a  line  specimen  of  mere  physical  beau- 
ty—the becm  ideal  of  a  young  country  squire:  most  girls 
would  have  thought  him  a  very  Apollo  at  a  race-course 
or  a  county  ball ;  and,  though  somewhat  rough,  he  was  not 
coarse,  else  how  could  Katharine  have  liked  him  ?  as  she 
certainly  did  while  they  were  only  cousins.  And  since  liis 
affection  for  her  had  grown  into  the  happiness  of  assured 
love,  his  manner  had  gained  a  softness  that  was  almost  re- 


THE    OGILVIES.  229 

finement.  If  with  others  he  laughed  loudly,  and  talked 
with  some  vulgarity,  he  never  came  into  her  presence,  or 
-within  the  sphere  of  her  influence,  but  his  tone  at  once  be- 
came gentle  and  suppressed.  He  loved  her  very  dearly, 
and  she  knew  it;  but  the  knowledge  only  brought  alter- 
nately scornful  triumph  and  torturing  regret. 

"  Cousin  Hugh  !  cousin  Hugh  !  there's  a  pretty  attempt 
at  rebellion  in  your  bonnie  bride  !"  said  Isabella,  flippantly. 
"  It  vows  and  declares  that  it  will  not  obey  its  husband, 
and  does  not  intend  to  live  at  Summerwood." 

"  What  is  that  about  not  living  at  Summerwood  ?"  said 
Lady  Ogilvie,  turning  round  uneasily,  with  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  at  her  eyes;  "Katharine  does  not  surely 
mean  to  say  that !     To  lose  her  so  would  break  ray  heart." 

"It  must  not  do  that,  mother;  I  hope  it  will  not,"  an- 
swered Katharine,  steadily,"  but  I  may  as  well  say  at  first 
as  at  last  that  I  can  not  live  here  any  longer;  I  am  quite 
wearied  of  this  dull  place,  and  Hugh  must  take  me  away — 
as  he  promised  he  would  when  I  engaged  to  be  his  wife. 
Is  it  not  so,  Hugh  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes — but  I  thought— that  is,  I  hoped — "  stammer- 
ed the  bridegroom,  with  a  disappointed  look. 

'•You  thought  I  should  not  expect  you  to  keep  your 
promise  ?     Well,  then,  I  see  no  necessity  to  keep  my  own." 

"  My  darling  Katharine,  don't  say  so  !"  cried  the  lover, 
in  new  anxiety,  as  he  flew  to  her  side  and  took  her  hand. 
She  drew  it  away,  not  in  coquettish  anger,  but  with  a  proud 
coldness,  which  she  had  already  learned  to  assume.  Al- 
ready— already  the  tender  womanliness  was  vanishing  from 
her  nature,  and  she  who  had  once  suflTered  the  tortures  of 
love  was  beginning  to  inflict  them. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  lovers'  quarrel ;  and  the  very  day  be- 
fore the  wedding,  too !"  cried  Isabella ;  "  aunt,  aunt,  you 
and  I  had  better  leave  them  to  make  it  up  alone."  And 
Mrs.  Fred  Pennythorne  led  through  the  open  door  the  still 
weeping  and  passive  Lady  Ogilvie,  who  now  more  than 
ever  was  ready  to  be  persuaded  by  any  body.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Isabella,  who  had  not  lost  a  jot  of  her  envious  tern- 


230  THE    OGILVIES. 

per,  rather  hoped  that  tlie  slight  disagreement  might  end 
in  a  regular  J'racas,  and  so  break  oft' the  marriage. 

Katharine  was  left  alone  Avith  lior  bridegroom.  She  saw 
that  the  time  was  come  for  nsing  her  power,  and  she  did 
use  it.  No  statue  could  be  more  haughtily  impassive  than 
she,  though  not  a  trace  of  that  contemptible  quality,  female 
sullenness,  deformed  her  beautiful  face.  She  ruled  her  lov- 
er with  a  rod  of  iron  :  in  a  minute  he  was  before  her,  hum- 
bled and  penitent. 

"  Katharine — dear  Katharine — don't  be  angry.  I  will 
do  any  thing  you  like  ;  only  we  should  be  so  happy  living 
here." 

"I  will  not  stay  at  Sumraerwood.  I  hate  it.  Hugh, 
you  promised  to  take  me  away ;  remember  that  pronrise 
now,  if  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do."  And  Katharine, 
restless  from  the  thouglit  of  the  battle  she  had  to  win,  and 
a  little  touched  by  Hugh's  gentleness,  spoke  less  frcczingly 
than  before. 

"  If  I  love  you  ?  You  know  I  do,"  answered  Hugh,  fond- 
ly winding  his  arm  round  her  neck.  She  thrust  it  back  a 
moment,  and  then,  smiling  bitterly,  she  let  it  stay.  He  had 
a  right  to  caress  her  now.  "  Katharine,"  continued  he, 
"  don't  you  remember  the  time  when  we  were  children — ■ 
at  least  you  were — and  I  used  to  carry  you  in  my  arms 
through  the  fields  ?  Don't  you  remember  the  old  times — 
how  we  Avent  gathering  blackberries — how  I  led  your  pony 
and  taught  you  to  ride — do  you  think  I  did  not  love  you 
even  then?  And  though,  wdrcn  we  grew  up,  we  began  to 
like  different  pursuits,  and  you  were  a  great  deal  cleverer 
than  I,  didn't  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever — more,  pei'hai^s  '?" 

"  You  did — you  did.  Good,  kind  cousin  Hugh  !"  mur- 
mured Katharine,  with  a  pang  of  self-reproach.  She  thought 
of  her  old,  happy  childish  days,  before  the  coming  of  that 
wild,  delicious,  terrible  love. 

"  Well,  then,  Katharine,  let  us  stay  at  Summerwood.  It 
will  i^lease  your  father  and  mother,  and  me  too — though  I 
don't  say  much  on  that  score,  and  I  care  little  about  my- 
self in  comparison  with  you;  but  it  would  be  rather  hard 


THE    OGILVIES.  23] 

to  give  up  the  shooting  and  farming,  to  sliut  one's  self  np 
in  a  close,  nasty  London  square.  I  really  don't  think  I  can 
consent  to  it."  Katharine  rose  from  her  seat — -all  her  pass- 
ing softness  gone.  8he  was  resolved  to  rule,  and  this  was 
the  first  struggle.     The  victory  must  he  gained. 

"Hugh  Ogilvie,"  she  said,  with  a  cold  firmness, "I  never 
deceived  you  from  the  first.  I  told  you  even  when  you 
came  back  to — to  be  my  husband'''' — she  said  the  word 
without  trembling  or  blushing — "that  I  did  not  love  vou 
as  you  loved  me.  But  I  liked  you — had  liked  you  from  a 
child.  I  respected,  esteemed  you  ;  I  was  willing  to  marry 
you,  if  you  cho.se.     Is  not  that  true  ?" 

"  It  is — it  is,"  murmured  the  bridegroom,  shrinking  be- 
neath her  proud  ej-e. 

"But  I  made  the  condition  that  you  should  take  me  to 
live  elsewhere — to  see  the  Avorld ;  that  I  should  not  be 
cooped  up  here — it  tortures  me — it  kills  me !  I  want  to 
be  free — and  I  will!  Otherwise  no  power  on  earth  slall 
persuade  or  force  me  to  marry  you — not  even  though  to- 
morrow was  to  have  been  our  wedding-day." 

"Was  to  have  been!  Oh,  Katharine,  how  cruel  you 
are  !  Say  shall  he,  for  indeed  it  shall.  We  will  live  wher- 
ever you  like — only  don't  give  me  up,  Katharine.  I  know 
how  little  you  care  for  me — I  feel  it;  but  you  may  come 
to  care  more  in  time,  if  you  Avill  only  let  me  love  you,  and 
try  to  make  you  happy.  Indeed — indeed  I  would."  And 
the  young  man,  perfectly  subdued,  knelt  before  her  as  she 
stood,  clasping  her  knees,  with  tears  running  down  his 
cheeks.  One  flash  of  evil  triumph  lighted  up  Katharine's 
face,  and  then,  for  the  second  time,  a  pang  of  remorse 
pierced  her  soul.  The  wickedness,  the  fiilsehood  of  the 
coming  marriage-vow — the  cruel  trampling  uj)on  a  heart 
which,  whatever  its  shortcomings,  was  filled  with  love  for 
her,  rushed  upon  her  mind.  For  a  moment  she  thought 
of  telling  him  all ;  there  was  a  whisper  within,  urging  her 
to  implore  his  forgiveness,  and  rather  brave  the  humilia- 
tion of  hopeless,  unrequited  love,  than  the  sin  of  entering  a 
married  home  with  a  lie  upon  her  soul.     But  while  she  lies- 


232  THE    OGILVIES. 

itated,  outside  the  door  rang  the  light,  mocking  laugh  of 
Isabella ;  and  the  world — its  idle  jests,  its  hateful  pity — 
rose  to  her  remembrance.  Her  proud  spirit  writhed.  One 
struggle — the  whisper  grew  fainter,  and  the  good  angel 
fled. 

"  Katharine,  say  you  forgive  me,"  pleaded  Hugh ;  "  you 
shall  have  your  own  way  in  this  and  every  thing  else,  if 
you  will  only  try  to  love  me,  and  be  my  sweet,  dear,  pre- 
cious wife !" 

"  I  will,"  answered  Katharine.  If,  as  the  Word  saith, 
"  there  is  joy  in  Heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth," 
surely  there  must  have  been  sorrow  then  over  one  fallen 
soul ! 

The  same  night,  long  after  the  whole  house  was  hushed, 
a  liglit  might  have  been  seen  burning  in  one  of  the  upper 
windows  at  Sumiiierwood.  It  came  from  Katharine's  cham- 
ber. There,  for  the  last  time,  she  kept  vigil  in  the  little 
room  which  had  been  her  shut-up  Eden  in  childhood,  girl- 
hood, womanhood.  The  very  Avails  looked  at  her  with  the 
old  faces  into  which  her  childish  imagination  had  trans- 
formed their  shadowy  bunches  of  flowers,  when  she  used 
to  lie  in  bed — aAvake,  but  dreaming  many  a  fanciful  day- 
dream, before  her  mother's  morning  summons  and  morning 
kiss — ahvays  her  mother's^broke  upon  this  paradise  of 
reverie.  Then  there  Avas  the  bookcase,  Avith  its  treasure- 
laden  shelves,  arranged  so  as  to  form  a  perfect  life-chroni- 
cle. The  upper  one  Avas  filled  Avitli  old,  Avorn  child's-books, 
two  or  three  of  Mrs.  Holland's  beautiful  tales,  such  as  the 
Clergyman's  Widow,  the  Young  Crusoe,  and  the  Barbadoes 
Girl — books  which  every  child  must  love;  beside  them 
came  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Ilemans's,  and  the  delicious  "Story 
Avithout  an  End,"  showing  the  gradual  dawning  of  flxncy 
and  poetry  in  the  young  mind.  And  so  the  silent  history 
went  on.  Tlie  lower  shelf  Avas  all  filled  with  works,  the 
strong  heart-beatings  of  heavenly-voiced  poets  and  glo- 
rious prose-writers  —  Shelley,  Tennyson,  Miss  Barrett,  Car- 
lyle,  Bulwer,  Emerson.  And  in  this  era  of  the  chi'oniclo, 
each  volume,  each  page,  Avas  alive  Avith  memories  of  that 


THE    OGILVIES,  233 

strong  love  which  had  been  the  very  essence  of  Katharme's 
life,  out  of  which  every  development  of  her  intellect  and 
every  phase  of  her  character  had  sprung. 

She  sat  by  the  fire,  rocking  to  and  fro,  on  the  little  rock- 
ing-chair, which  had  been  one  of  her  fancies,  and  the  sooth- 
ing motion  of  which  had  many  a  time  composed  and  quiet- 
ed her  in  her  light  passing  troubles.  Beside  her,  on  the 
table,  lay  the  old  worn-out  desk  she  had  used  when  a  child, 
and  in  which,  afterward,  she  kept  her  "  treasures."  She 
opened  it,  and  looked  them  all  over. 

They  Avere  many,  and  curious,  but  all  relating  in  some 
way  or  other  to  the  great  secret  of  her  life.  There  were 
numberless  fragments  of  stray  poetry,  or  rather  rhyme ; 
some  her  own — some  which  she  had  copied — fragments 
made  ever  after  sacred  by  some  comment  or  praise  of  Paul 
Lynedon's.  As  she  read  these  over  one  by  one,  her  breast 
heaved  with  convulsive  sobs.  She  choked  them  down  and 
went  on  with  her  task.  Other  relics  were  there — the  usual 
girlish  mementoes — a  heap  of  withered  flowers,  which  day 
after  day  he  had  given  her — and  she  had  kept  them  all. 
Likewise  some  versions  of  a  song,  written  in  a  bold,  manly 
hand — Lynedon  had  done  it  to  beguile  the  time  while  she 
was  copying  music,  and  had  scribbled  all  along  the  sides 
of  the  page  her  name  and  his  own. 

Apart  from  these,  in  a  secret  drawer,  lay  Paul's  letter — 
his  first  and  only  letter.  Katharine  tore  open  its  folds, 
and  read  it  slowly  all  through.  But  when  she  reached  the 
end,  she  dashed  it  to  the  floor. 

"  'His  Katharine — his  own  Katharine  !'  And  it  was  all 
false — false  !  Oh,  poor  fool  that  I  was — poor,  A-ain,  credu- 
lous fool — But  it  shall  be  so  no  more  ;  I  Avill  crush  him  from 
my  heart — thus — thus  !" 

Her  foot  was  already  on  the  letter;  but  she  drew  back, 
snatched  it  once  again,  and  pressed  it  Avildly  to  lier  lips 
and  her  heart. 

There  was  one  more  relic :  that  sketch  which  bore  such 
a  curious  resemblance  to  Paul  Lynedon — the  head  of  Keats. 
Katharine  took  the  long-hoarded  treasure  from  its  hiding- 

L 


234  THE    OGILVIES. 

place,  and  gazed  fixedly  on  it  for  a  long  time.  Then  the 
fountain  of  her  tears  was  unlocked,  and  sobs  of  agony  shook 
her  whole  frame. 

"  Oh  Paul !  heart  of  my  heart !  why  did  you  not  love 
me?  Is  there  any  one  in  the  world  who  would  have  wor- 
shiped you  as  I?  I — who  would  have  given  my  life  to 
make  you  happy — who  would  now  count  it  the  dearest 
blessing  only  to  lean  one  moment  on  your  breast,  to  hear 
you  say  'My  Katliarine  !'  and  then  lie  down  at  your  feet 
and  die.  Die?  Shall  I  die  for  one  who  has  thus  cruelly 
deceived  me?  Nay;  but  I  beguiled  myself;  I  only  was 
vain — mad — blind  !  What  was  I,  to  think  to  win  Jdm  ? 
Paul — Paul  Lynedon — no  wonder  that  you  loved  me  not! 
I  was  not  worthy — oh  no — I  was  not  worthy.  I  am  fit  for 
nothing  but  to  die  !" 

In  this  fearful  vigil  of  despair,  fierce  anger,  and  lingering 
love,  the  night  wore  on.  It  seemed  an  eternity  to  the  mis- 
erable girl.  At  last,  utterly  exhausted,  Katharine  sank 
into  a  deadly  calm.  She  sat  motionless,  her  arms  folded 
on  the  little  desk,  and  her  cheek  leaning  against  the  mourn- 
ful relics  of  a  life's  dream.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  twit- 
ter of  a  bird,  and  saw  her  lamp  grow  pale  in  the  daybreak. 
Then  she  arose,  gathered  up  her  treasures,  laid  them  sol- 
emnly, one  by  one,  on  the  embers  of  the  dying  fire,  and 
watched  until  all  were  consumed. 

The  next  day — nay,  the  same  day,  for  it  was  already 
dawn — Katharine  Ogilvie  was  married. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Seldom  liath  my  tongue  pronounced  that  name. 
******* 
But  the  dear  love,  so  deeply  wounded  then, 
I  in  my  heart  with  silent  faith  sincere 
Devoutly  cherish  till  we  meet  again. — Southet. 

We  arc  about  to  break  through  all  dramatic  unity  of 
place,  and  to  convey  our  readers  abroad.  Suppose,  then, 
the  scene  transferred  to  the  Continent — Italy — Florence. 


THE    OGILVIES.  235 

But  the  reader  need  not  shudder  at  the  name,  and  expect 
long-winded  descriptions  of  scenery — chapters  taken  at 
random  from  Murray's  Hand-book ;  since,  fur  various  rea- 
sons, we  shall  eschew  all  landscape-jDainting. 

There  is,  we  understand — for  truth  forbids  us  to  speak 
without  this  qualification — in  Florence  a  pleasant  square, 
which  forms  a  general  lounge  for  idlers,  rich  and  pooi,  na- 
tive and  foreign,  inasmuch  as  it  contains  a  market,  a  curi- 
ous antique  building — called,  not  unappropriately,  the  Pa- 
lazzo Yecchio — and  the  town  post-office.  This  latter  place 
is  of  course  the  perpetual  resort  of  foreigners  who  are  anx- 
ious to  snatch  their  precious  home-remembrances  from  the 
well-known  carelessness  of  Italian  officials.  Thus,  almost 
all  the  British  residents,  or  passing  visitors  to  Florence, 
maybe  seen  at  different  times  strolling  round  this  square. 

Among  them,  one  day  in  winter,  were  two  ladies  walk- 
ing slowly,  the  elder  leaning  on  her  companion's  arm.  Be- 
neath the  close  black  bonnet  and  veil  of  the  tallei-  one  ap- 
peared the  sharp,  regular  features  of  Mrs.  Breynton.  Siie 
looked  a  little  older,  perhaps,  and  a  little  more  wrinkled ; 
but  she  was  still  the  same  Mrs.  Breynton,  the  widow  of 
the  dean,  with  her  tall,  straight  figure,  and  her  canonically- 
flowing  black  robes.  The  young  girl  on  whom  she  leaned 
was,  it  is  needless  to  say,  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Dear  Eleanor — the  much-tried  but  yet  happ}%  because 
loved  and  loving  one  !  let  us  look  once  more  on  that  slight 
drooping  figure,  like  a  willow  at  a  brook  side — tliat  pale 
clear  brow — those  sweet,  calm  eyes  !  But  adjectives  and 
metaphors  fail ;  she  is  of  those  whom  one  does  not  even 
wish  to  describe — only  to  look  upon,  murmuring  softly,"! 
love  you — I  love  you !"  evermore.  And  where  there  is 
love  there  must  be  beauty,  perhaps  tlie  more  irresistible 
because  we  can  not  tell  exactly  in  what  feature  or  gesture 
it  lies. 

Time  passes  lightly  over  all  equable  natures ;  it  had 
done  so  over  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  Her  mind  and  cliaracter 
■were  nearly  matured  when  we  first  saw  her,  and  a  few 
years  made  little  difference.     Perhaps  the  fair  cheek  was 


236  THE    OGILVIES. 

somewhat  less  round,  and  the  eyes  more  deep  and  thought- 
ful, especially  now,  when  a  care  heavier  than  ordmary 
weighed  on  her  gentle  spirit.  But  it  caused  no  jarring 
there — no  outward  sign  of  impatient  trouble.  To  a  heart 
so  pure,  even  sorrow  comes  as  a  veiled  angel. 

"  How  cold  it  is,  Eleanor !"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  as  the 
occasional  east  wind,  which  makes  a  Lombard  Avinter  al- 
most like  a  northern  one,  swept  round  the  tower  of  the  Pa- 
lazzo Vecchio;  "I  do  not  see  that  I  am  any  the  better  for 

coming  to  Italy;  it  was  much  warmer  at  L ."     And 

as  she  spoke,  one  might  perceive  that  her  voice  had 
changed  from  the  slow  ])reciseness  of  old,  to  a  sharp,  quer- 
ulous tone,  which  seemed  to  ask,  as  if  througli  long  habit, 
for  the  southing  answer  that  never  failed, 

"It  is  indeed  very  cold  ;  but  this  bleak  Avind  only  comes 

now  and  then.     We  may  be  sure  that  Doctor  B was 

quite  right  Avhen  he  ordered  you  to  the  South  ;  and  I  think 
your  cough  is  better  already." 

"  Is  it  V"  said  the  invalid  ;  and,  to  disprove  the  fact,  she 
couglied  violently.  "No,  no — I  sliall  die  of  asthma,  I 
know,  like  my  father,  and  my  great-uncle.  Sir  Philip  Wych- 
nor."  Here  there  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  arm  on 
which  the  old  lady  rested;  it  caused  her  brow  to  darken, 
and  the  thin  lips,  through  which  had  unconsciously  issued 
this  rarely-uttered  name,  were  angrily  compressed.  She 
did  not  look  at  her  companion,  but  walked  on  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.  Nor  did  Eleanor  speak,  but  her  head  droop- 
ed a  little  lower,  and  the  moistened  eyelash  and  trembling 
lip  could  have  told  througli  how  much  forbearance  and 
meekness,  daily  exercised,  had  Philip's  betrothed  kept  her 
promise  to  him.  She  was  indeed  as  a  daughter  unto  the 
stern  woman  who  had  once  shown  kindness  toward  her 
lover.  It  was  a  strange  bond  between  the  two,  and  form- 
ed of  many  conflicting  elements.  On  one  side,  the  very 
wrath  of  jMrs.  Breynton  toward  her  nephew  made  her  lieart 
cling  with  a  sort  ol  compassion  to  tho  young  girl  whom 
she  deemed  he  had  slighted ;  Avhile,  on  the  other  hand,  El- 
eanor forgot  at  times  even  the  present  wrong  done  to  her 


THE    OGILVIES.  237 

lover,  remembering  that  Mrs.  Breynton  ^vas  Philip's  near 
kinswoman,  and  had  once  been,  as  iar  as  her  cold  nature 
allowed,  in  the  stead  of  a  mother  to  him.  There  Avas  still 
a  lingering  warmth  in  the  ashes  of  that  olden  aifection. 
Eleanor  saw  it  many  a  time,  even  in  the  sudden  anger 
aroused  by  some  chance  memento  of  Philip's  childhood ; 
and,  day  by  day,  her  whole  thought,  her  whole  aim,  was  to 
revive  this  former  love.  Thus  silently,  slowly,  she  pursued 
the  blessed  Avork  of  the  peacemaker. 

They  advanced  toward  the  post-office,  where,  as  usual, 
was  a  cluster  of  people  anxiously  struggling  lor  letters. 
It  would  have  been  an  amusing  scene  for  a  psychologist  or 
a  student  of  human  nature;  but  the  English  ladies  had  too 
much  interest  on  their  own  account  to  notice  those  around. 
They  were  trying  to  make  their  way  through  the  ci'owd, 
which,  trifling  as  it  was,  inconvenienced  the  precise  Mrs. 
Breynton  exceedingly. 

"Let  us  stay  in  the  rear  of  this  gentleman,  who  is  prob- 
ably waiting  for  the  English  letters,"  whispered  Eleanor, 
glancing  at  a  tall,  cloak-enveloped  personage  who  stood  in 
front.  Softl}^  as  she  spoke,  he  seemed  to  catch  the  tone, 
for  he  turned  round  suddenly,  and  Eleanor  recognized  the 
face  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

She  had  seen  him  more  than  once  before — at  least  she 
fancied  it  was  he — in  their  walks  about  Florence.  But  he 
had  never  indicated  the  slightest  wish  for  a  recognition. 
Now,  it  was  difficult  to  a\o;d  it.  Their  eyes  met;  her 
color  rose,  and  there  was  a  slight  contraction  of  his  brow ; 
but  the  next  moment  he  bowed  with  an  easy  grace  and  a 
polite  smile  that  at  once  banished  from  Eleanor's  mind  all 
regretful  thought  of  the  lover  she  had  rejected.  She  held 
out  her  hand  with  a  frank  kindness ;  he  took  it  Avith  the 
same.  There  was  no  agitation,  no  pain  visible  in  his  coun- 
tenance, for  there  Avas  none  in  his  heart.  A  little  annoy- 
ance or  mortification  he  perhaps  might  feel  on  being  un- 
jdeasantly  reminded  of  the  time  Avhen  he  had  "  made  such 
a  fool  of  himself,"  but  he  Avas  too  polite  and  too  proud  to 
betray  the  same  in  Avord  or  manner. 


238  THE    OGILVIES. 

Paul  Lynedon  quite  overwhelmed  Mrs.  Breynton  with 
his  expressions  of  gratiHeation  at  meeting  with  two  "fair 
countrywomen."  lie  was  as  agreeable  as  of  old,  but  his 
manners  wore  less  of  the  graceful  charm  which  springs 
from  a  kindly  heart,  and  more  of  that  outward  empresse- 
rnent  -svhich  sometimes  assimilates  to  affectation.  It  was 
evident  that  he  liad  become  a  complete  man  of  the  world. 
He  easily  procured  their  letters.  There  were  several  for 
Mrs.  Breynton,  and  two  for  Eleanor.  Hugh's  large,  care- 
less handwriting  marked  one  of  the  latter.  She  opened  it, 
and  started  in  joyful  surprise  at  the  intelligence  it  contain- 
ed— the  announcement  of  the  intended  marriage  of  her 
brother  and  cousin.  In  sisterly  exultation,  she  proclaimed 
the  news  aloud. 

"  How  glad  I  am  !  how  I  always  wished  for  this  !  Dear 
Hugh  !  dear  Katharine  !  You  remember  Katharine,  Mr. 
Lynedon  ?"  were  her  hurried  exclamations. 

Mr.  Lynedon  "remembered  her  quite  Avell,  as  every  one 
must — a  sweet  girl !  He  Avas  indeed  happy  to  hear  she 
was  married."  This  was  not  exactly  true,  as,  in  running 
over  the  list  of  fair  young  creatures  wdio  had  looked  favor- 
ably on  himself,  Paul  liad  unconsciously  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  including  Katharine  Ogilvie.  She  was  a  mere 
child  then,  to  be  sure,  bnt  she  might  grow  up  pretty;  and 
if  so,  sup])osing  they  ever  nret  again,  the  renewal  of  his 
slight  flirtation  with  her  Avould  be  rather  amusing  than 
otherwise.  At  hearing  of  her  marriage,  he  felt  an  uncom- 
fortable sensation — as  he  often  did  at  the  wedding  of  any 
young  girl  who  had  appeared  to  like  himself.  It  seemed 
to  imply  that  Paul  Lynedon  was  not  the  only  attractive 
man  in  the  world.  Even  when  Eleanor,  chancing  to  draw 
off  her  glove,  had  unconsciously  exhibited  the  unwedded 
left  hand,  he  had  glanced  at  it  with  a  pleasurable  vanity. 
Though  he  was  not  in  love  with  her  now,  and  really  won- 
dered how  he  ever  could  have  been,  still  he  felt  a  degree 
of  self-satisfaction  that  no  other  man  had  gained  the  prize 
which  he  now  blushed  for  ever  having  sought.  How  gradu- 
ally  the  rust  of  vam  and  selfish  worldliness  had  crept  over 
Paul  Lynedon''s  soul ! 


THE  0(;ii.viES.  239 

"  They  must  be  married  by  this  time,"  observed  Eleanor, 
referring  to  the  letter.  "  Hugh  says,  I  think,  that  it  v/as  to 
be  very  soon — ah  !  yes,  the  27th." 

"  Then  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day,"  said  Lynedon. 
"Allow  me  thus  early  to  ofter  you  my  warm  congratula- 
tions, with  every  good  wish  to  the  happy  couple."  Eleanor 
thanked  him,  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  Then  he  made  his 
adieux,  and  disappeared  among  a  group  of  Florentine  la- 
dies. There  was  a  ball  that  night  in  Florence,  at  which 
none  were  more  brilliant  or  admired  than  the  young  En- 
glishman. He  smiled  as  he  listened  to  his  name,  brokenly 
and  coquettishly  murmured  by  many  a  fair  Italian  daina. 
He  did  not  hear  from  afar  the  wild  moan  of  one  stricken 
heart,  that  in  lonely  despair  sobbed  forth  the  same.  Oii 
Life  !  how  blindly  we  grope  among  thy  mysteries  ! 

Mrs.  Brcynton  expressed  the  proper  degree  of  pleasure 
in  a  few  formal  congratulations ;  but  her  knowledge  of 
Hugh  was  small,  and  her  interest  in  him  still  less,  for  the 
range  of  the  good  lady's  sympathies  had  never  been  very 
wide.  Besides,  she  was  somewhat  shocked  at  the  impro- 
priety of  reading  letters  in  the  street,  and  had  carefully 
gathered  up  her  own  budget  for  a  quiet  home-perusal. 
However,  on  reaching  their  abode,  she  condescended  so  far 
as  to  ask  to  see  Hugh's  letter.  Eleanor  gave  it  before  she 
had  herself  quite  read  througli  the  long  and  rambling  effu- 
sion of  a  lover's  delight. 

Over  it  the  aged  eyes  seemed  slowly  to  journey  without 
a  single  change  of  expression.  Eleanor  watched  the  im- 
movable face,  and  marveled.  A  love-history  of  any  kind 
is  regarded  so  differently  at  three-and-twenty  and  three- 
and-sixty.  But  when  Mrs.  Breynton  in  her  slow  perusal 
reached  the  postscript,  her  countenance  changed,  grew 
pale,  and  then  darkened.  She  hastily  refolded  the  paper, 
laid  it  on  the  table,  and,  snatching  up  her  own  packet  of 
letters,  quitted  the  room. 

Eleanor  again  took  Hugh's  epistle,  and  read  :  "  Cousin 
Bella  was  married  lately  to  a  Mr.  Fredei'ick  Pemiythorne. 
By-the-by,  through  this  wedding,  our  old  friend,  or  rather 


240  THE    OGILVIES. 

yours,  Philip  Wychnor,  has  turned  up  again.  The  Penny- 
thornes  know  him,  and  Katharine  met  him  at  a  grand  liter- 
ary party.  He  asked  after  you,  but  he  did  not  speak  about 
Mrs.Breynton.  Is  there  any  breeze  between  him  and  the 
old  aunt?  He  is  growing  a  celebrated  author,  having 
turned  out  quite  a  genius,  as  Katharine  says — and  she 
must  know,  being  so  clever  herself,"  etc.,  etc.  And  the 
lover  returned,  of  course,  to  the  praises  of  his  beloved. 

Eleanor  paused,  oppressed  with  many  mingled  feelings. 
It  was  now  a  long  season  since  she  had  heard  from  Philip, 
though  she  herself  had  written  regularly.  At  first  his  sud- 
den silence  pained  her ;  and,  casting  aside  all  girlish  ca- 
price and  anger,  she  had  sent  more  than  one  letter  asking 
the  reason,  but  no  answer  came.  She  then  felt,  not  doubt 
of  his  faithfulness,  but  terror  for  his  health  ;  imtil  this  fear 
was  lightened  by  her  continually  tracing  his  name  in  va- 
rious literary  channels,  and  on  one  occasion  receiving,  ad- 
dressed to  her  in  his  own  handwriting,  Philip's  first  pub- 
lished book.  She  marveled  that  even,  her  loving  and  de- 
lighted acknowledgment  of  this  still  brought  no  reply. 
And  yet  she  trusted  him  still.  She  would  have  doubted 
the  whole  world  rather  than  Philip  Wychnor's  truth. 

Truthful  and  candid  as  she  was,  Eleanor  had  never  sought 
to  make  her  correspondence  with  her  betrothed  a  clandes- 
tine one.  Between  herself  and  Mrs.  Breynton  there  was  a 
perfect  silence  on  the  subject,  without  attempt  either  at  ex- 
planation or  concealment.  Month  after  month  the  post- 
bag  of  the  palace  had  been  trusted  with  these  precious  love- 
messages  from  one  true  heart  to  the  other,  therefore  now 
no  doubt  of  foul  play  ever  crossed  the  mind  of  the  young 
betrothed:  she  would  have  scorned  to  harbor  such  an  un- 
worthy suspicion  of  Philip's  aunt.  Still,  Eleanor  had  need 
of  all  her  courage  and  faithful  love  to  bear  this  suspense. 
Even  now,  when  she  rejoiced  at  these  good  news  of  him, 
her  gentle  heart  was  sorely  pained  that  Philip  himself 
should  not  have  been  the  first  to  convey  it. 

She  dried  a  few  gathering  tears,  and  determined  to  trust 
him  still,  until  the  near  termination  of  this  Italian  journey 


THE    OGILVIES.  241 

should  enable  her  to  visit  Summerwood,  when  some  blessed 
chance  would  bring  her  face  to  face  witli  her  betrothed. 
Then  she  mechanically  opened  the  second  letter,  which  had 
been  neglected  for  Hugh's. 

It  informed  her  that  sub-dean  Sedley,  the  unwearied  back- 
gammon-player of  the  Close,  at  L ,  had  died,  and  left 

her,  Eleanor  Ogilvie,  sole  legatee  of  all  his  little  fortune  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXH. 


Cym.  Oh  disloyal  thing, 

That  should  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me. 

Imo.  I  beseech  you, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  :  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath  ;  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.  Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

SHARSrEARE, 

Mrs.  Bretnton-  had  the  character  of  being  a  strongs 
minded  woman  ;  but  no  one  would  liave  thought  so  to  see 
her  when,  after  leaving  Eleanor,  she  proceeded  to  her  own 
apartment  and  walked  restlessly  up  and  down,  her  whole 
countenance  betraying  the  inward  chafing  of  her  spirit. 
She  glanced  carelessly  at  the  letters  she  still  held,  and 
threw  them  dovvu  again.  She  was  just  beginning  to  grow 
calm,  when  another  packet  was  brought  her  with  "Mr. 
Lynedon's  compliments,  and  he  felt  glad  to  have  been  able 
to  rescue  the  inclosed  from  further  delay  at  the  post." 

Mrs.  Breynton  returned  a  polite  message,  put  on  her 
spectacles,  and  prepared  herself  to  read  the  second  edition 
of  correspondence.  The  first  of  the  batch  was  evidently 
interesting — as  it  might  well  be — for  it  looked  \\\q.  fac-shn- 
He  of  that  lawyer's  epistle  which  had  communicated  to 
Eleanor  such  important  tidings.  Mrs.  Breynton  was  rising 
to  summon  her  young  friend,  when  the  second  letter  caught 
her  eye.  It  was  addressed  to  Miss  Ogilvie,  yet  she  snatch- 
ed it  up,  and  eagerly  examined  the  Imndwriting.     It  resen> 

L2 


242  THE    OGILVIES. 

bled  that  of  many  a  school-boy  lettei*  Avhich  at  Midsummer 
and  Cliristmas  had  come  to  the  palace,  which  she  had 
deciphered — not  without  pleasure — from  the  flourishing 
"Dear  Aunt,"  to  the  small,  cramped  ending,  "Your  duti- 
ful and  att'eetionate  nephew."  It  was  still  more  like  the 
careless  college  scrawl  which  had  weekly  informed  her  of 
Oxford  doings  in  a  frank,  easy  style,  whose  informality 
sometimes  gained  a  grave  reproof  As  slie  held  the  letter 
to  the  light,  her  fiiigei-s  trembled,  even  tliough  her  brow 
was  angrily  knitted.  Then  she  turned  to  the  seal — a  rath- 
er remarkable  one.  It  was  her  own  gift — she  remembered 
it  Avell — with  the  Wychnor  crest  and  a  cross  underneath. 
What  trouble  she  had  taken  to  have  it  engraved  in  time 
for  his  birthday  !  How  dared  he  think  of  this,  and  use  it 
now! 

Mrs.  Breynton  had  never  been  a  mother.  No  child  had 
ever  clung  to  her  bosom,  and  nestled  near  her  heart,  to 
charm  away  all  coldness  and  harshness  there.  Marrying 
without  love,  she  had  passed  through  life,  and  never  felt  a. 
single  strong  affection.  Perhaps  the  warmest  feeling  of  her 
nature  had  been  tliat  which  in  her  girlliood  united  her  to 
her  only  brother.  After  this  tie  was  broken,  her  disposi- 
tion grew  cold  and  impassive,  until  the  little  Philip  came 
—a  softened  image  of  the  past,  a  vague  interest  for  the  fut- 
ure. Every  lingering  womanly  feeling  in  her  frost-bound 
heart  gatliered  itself  around  the  child  other  dead  brother; 
and  with  these  new  affections  came  a  determination,  spring- 
ing from  her  iron  will  and  inflexible  prejudices,  to  make 
the  son  atone  for  the  still  unforgiven  dereliction  of  the  fa- 
tlier  in  quitting  that  service  of  the  sanctuary  which  had 
become  part  of  the  family  inheritance. 

A  female  bigot  is  the  most  inveterate  of  all.  The  Smith- 
field  burnt-oflerings  of  Mary  Tudor  were  tenfold  more  nu- 
merous than  those  of  the  kingly  wife-murderer  who  called 
her  daughter.  Had  Mrs.  Bi-eynton  lived  in  those  days,  she 
would  have  rejoiced  in  a  heretic-pyre.  Therefore,  when 
she  ti-icd  to  constrain  her  nephew  to  enter  the  Church,  it 
was  with  tilt'  full  conviction  that  she  was  doing  her  best 


THE    OGILVIES.  243 

for  his  soul  as  Avell  as  for  his  temporal  interests.  She  loved 
him,  as  much  as  a  woman  like  her  could  love ;  she  desired 
his  Avelftxre ;  but  then  all  good  must  come  to  him  through 
one  way — the  way  she  had  planned.  To  tliis  road  she  had 
alternately  lured  and  goaded  him.  In  his  destiny  she  pro- 
posed to  include  two  atonements— one  on  the  shrine  of  tlie 
Church;  the  other,  by  his  union  with  Eleanor,  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  girl's  forsaken  mother. 

When  the  conscientious  scruples  of  the  young  man 
thwarted  this  great  scheme  of  her  life,  Mrs.  Breynton  was 
at  first  paralyzed.  That  Philip  should  venture  to  oppose 
herself — that  he  should  dare  to  doubt  those  ecclesiastical 
mysteries,  without  the  pale  of  which  she  conceived  all  to 
be  crime  and  darkness,  was  a  greater  shock  than  even  the 
shortcomings^of  his  father.  She  felt  overwhelmed  with 
horror  and  indignation — an  indignation  so  violent  that 
both  then,  and  for  a  long  time  afterward,  it  caused  her,  like 
most  bigots,  to  confound  the  sinner  with  the  sin,  until  she 
positively  hated  tlie  nephew  who  had  once  been  to  her  a 
source  of  interest  and  pride.  But,  this  first  tempest  of 
Avrath  over,  she  began  to  incline  toward  tlie  lost  one ;  and 
with  a  strange  mingling  of  affection,  obstinate  will,  arid 
that  stern  prejudice  which  seemed  to  her  darkened  eyes 
the  true  spirit  of  religion,  Mrs.  Breynton  determined,  if 
she  could  not  win,  to  force  her  nephew  into  the  patli  for 
which  she  had  destined  him. 

Long  she  pondered  upon  the  best  method  of  accomjilish- 
ing  her  will ;  and,  embittered  as  she  was  against  Pliilip,  it 
was  some  time  before  she  could  reconcile  her  pride  and 
her  conscience  to  do  that  which,  by  driving  him  to  de- 
spair, would  at  last  bring  home  the  repentant  prodigal. 
Jiut  wlien,  in  lier  blindness,  she  had  fully  satisfied  herself 
that  "the  end  sanctified  the  means,"  she  commenced  the 
plan  which  suggested  itself  as  best.  No  more  letters  were 
received  either  by  Philip  or  Eleanor.  All  were  intercei»t- 
ed  and  consigned  to  the  flames,  in  Mrs.  Breynton's  room. 
She  did  not  open  or  read  a  single  one;  for,  -while  persuad- 
ing herself  that  she  was  i'ulfilling  a  stern  duty,  the  dean's 


244  THE    OGILVIES. 

widow  would  have  scorned  to  gratify  idle  curiosity  or  mal- 
ice. She  could,  self-deceived,  commit  a  great  crime,  but 
she  could  not  stoo])  to  a  small  meauness.  Unmoved,  she 
saw  Eleanor's  cheek  grow  pale  Avith  anxiety,  and  fancied 
that  all  this  time  she  was  working  out  the  girl's  future 
happiness;  that  the  recreant  lover  would  be  brought  to 
his  senses,  would  immediately  seek  his  betrothed.  Once 
more  under  her  roof — and  Mrs.  Breynton  longed  with  a 
sickly  longing  to  have  him  there  once — she  doubted  not 
her  influence  over  him.     She  could  not  lose  him  again. 

It  would  be  a  curious  study  for  those  who  rightly  and 
justly  believe  in  the  perfectibility  of  humanity  to  trace 
how  often,  at  the  root  of  the  darkest,  Avoe-creating  crime, 
lurks  some  motive  which,  though  warped  to  evil,  has  its 
origin  in  good.  So  it  was  with  this  woman.  She  stood 
looking  at  the  letter,  and  thinking  over  the  news  which 
had  come  to  her  knowledge  concerning  Phili]).  It  had  ir- 
ritated and  alarmed  her  to  hear  of  her  nephew's  success. 
She  feared  lest  her  own  hold  over  him  should  grow  weak- 
er as  he  prospered  in  the  world.  Indignant  beyond  en- 
durance, she  crushed  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and — the  seal 
broke  !  But  for  this  chance  she  might  have  withstood  the 
desire  which  prompted  her,  by  plunging  still  deeper  into 
deceit,  to  arrive  at  a  clear  knowledge  of  Philip's  motives 
and  intentions,  so  as  thereby  to  guide  her  own.  Foi'  a 
moment  she  paused  irresolute,  and  then  the  evil  wish  con- 
quered— Mrs.  Breynton  opened  the  letter.  It  seemed  to 
have  been  written  at  various  times,  the  first  date  being 
many  weeks  back. 

"Eieanor !"  it  began — and  the  handwriting,  which  often 
betrays  what  words  succeed  in  concealing,  was  tremulous 
and  illegible — "  you  said  one  day — that  soft  spring  morn- 
ing, do  you  remember? — when  we  stood  together  in  the 
window,  looking  on  the  palace-lawn — your  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  my  arm  encircling  you,  as  it  had  a  right  to 
do  then — you  said  that  we  must  have  no  secrets  from  one 
another ;  that  we  must  never  sufl:er  the  faintest  shadow  to 
rise  up  between  us.     There  has  been  none  until  now !     EI- 


THE    OGILVIES.  245 

anor,  iearest — still  dearest — shall  I  tell  you  what  troubles 
jie  ?  A  doubt — idle,  perhaps  wrong,  and  yet  it  weighs 
me  down.  I  heard  last  night,  by  chance,  a  few  words  that 
I  would  only  have  smiled  at  but  for  your  long  silence  and 
your  departure  from  England.  You  have  gone,  as  I  under- 
stand, and  without  informing  me.  Was  this  quite  right, 
my  Eleanor  ?  Still,  there  may  have  been  a  reason.  My 
aunt — but  I  will  not  speak  of  her.  Let  me  come  at  once 
to  this  idle  rumor.  They  say — though  I  do  not  believe  it 
■ — that  three  years  ago — which  must  have  been  at  the  very 
time,  the  blessed  spring-time  when  I  first  told  you  how 
precious  was  your  love — another  did  the  same.  In  shoi't, 
that  you  were  wooed — vnlUngly  wooed — by  a  Mr.  Paul 
Lynedon,  whom  you  met  at  Summerwood.  Why  did  you 
never  speak  of  this  acquaintance — for  of  course  he  was 
nothing  more  ?  You  could  not — no,  my  Eleanor,  my  all- 
pure,  all-true  Eleanor ! — you  could  not  have  deceived  me, 
when  you  confessed  that  I — such  as  I  am,  inferior  in  out- 
ward qualities  to  many,  and  doubtless  to  this  Paul  Lyne- 
don, if  report  be  true — that  I  was  dearer  to  you  than  all 
the  world.  How  I  hesitate  over  this  foolish  tale — let  me 
end  it  at  once.  Well,  then,  they  say  that  this  same  I^yne- 
don  is  now  with  you  at  Florence  ;  that  fact  is  certainly 
true.  As  for  the  rest — oh  !  my  kind  and  faithful  one,  ior- 
give  me;  but  I  am  anxious,  troubled.  Write,  if  only  one 
line.  Not  that  I  doubt  you — do  not  think  it ;  but  still — 
However,  I  must  wait,  for  I  have  to  find  out  your  address 
by  some  means  before  I  can  send  this." 

The  letter  continued,  dated  later,  "You  do  not  know 
what  I  suffer  from  your  silence,  Eleanor.  I  have  seen  Hugh, 
your  brother — mine  that  is  to  be.  His  careless  greeting- 
pained  me.  It  was  perhaps  best  to  keep  our  engagement 
so  secret,  and  yet  it  is  humiliating.  Hugh  chanced  lo 
speak  of  your  visit  at  Summerwood  long  ago ;  of  Paul 
Lynedon,  too — with  that  name  he  jestingly  coupled  yours. 
He  said  but  few  words ;  for  his  mind  was  too  full  of  his 
approaching  marriage — of  course  you  are  aware  of  it,  Elea- 
nor?    But  these  few  words  cut  me  to  the  heart.     And  I 


240  THE    OGILVIES. 

must  wait  still,  for  Iliigli  has  lost  your  address.     No !  I 
can  not  "wait — it  is  tortur*^      I  must  2:0  to  L .   *  *  *  * 


&' 


"L ,  March  20tli. 

''  You  see  I  am  here — on  the  very  spot,  so  sacred — but  I 
dare  not  think  of  that  now.  Eleanor,  I  have  learned — be- 
lieve me,  it  was  hy  mere  chance,  not  by  prying  rudely  into 
your  aifairs — I  have  learned  that  this  story  was  not  all 
false — that  Paul  Lynedon  vas  here — with  you.  And  yet 
you  never  told  me!  What  must  I  think?  There  is  a 
cloud  before  me..  I  see  two  images — Eleanor,  the  Eleanor 
of  old — true,  faithful,  loving,  in  Avhom  I  trusted,  and  would 
fain  trust  still ;  and  the  other  Eleanor,  secretly  wooed  of 
Lynedon,  the  heiress  of  Dean  Sedley — you  see  I  know  that 
ti)0.  You  need  not  have  concealed  your  good  fortune  from 
me,  but  this  is  nothing  comjiared  to  the  other  pang.  I  try 
to  write  calmly  ;  yet  if  you  knew — But  I  will  rest  until  to- 
morrow.    *     *     *     * 

"I  think  the  madness — the  torture  is  over  now.  All 
day — almost  all  night — I  have  been  walking  along  our  old 
walks ;  by  the  river,  and  beneath  the  cathedral  shadow — 
in  your  vei"y  footsteps,  Eleanor,  as  it  seemed.  I  can  write 
to  you  now  and  say  what  I  have  to  say — calmly,  tenderly, 
as  becomes  one  to  whom  you  were  ever  gentle  and  kind. 
Eleanor,  if  you  love  this  man,  and  he  loves  you — lie  could 
not  but  do  that ! — then  let  no  promise  once  given  to  me 
stand  between  you  two.  Mr.  Lynedon  is,  as  I  hear,  not  un- 
worthy of  you^high-minded,  clever,  rich,  and,  withal,  cal- 
culated to  win  any  woman's  heart.  If  he  has  won  yours,  I 
have  no  right  to  murmur.  Perhaps  I  ought  rather  to  re- 
joice that  you  will  be  saved  from  sharing  the  struggles 
and  poverty  which  must  be  my  lot  for  many  years — it  may 
be  while  I  live.  Be  happy;  I  can  endure  all;  and  peace 
will  come  to  me  in  time.  Eleanor,  mj/  Elexinor! — let  me 
write  the  words  once  more — only  once — God  bless  you  ! 
He  only  knows  how  dearly  I  have  loved,  how  dearly  I  do 
love  you  !  But  this  love  can  only  pain  you  now,  so  I  will 
not  utter  it. 


THE    OGILVIES.  247 

*'  One  word  yet.  If  all  this  tale  be  false — though  I  dare 
not  trust  myself  to  think  so — then,  Eleanor,  have  pity ; 
forget  all  I  have  said  in  my  misery ;  forgive  me — love  me 
— take  me  to  your  heart  again,  and  write  speedily,  that  I 
may  once  more  take  to  mine  its  life,  its  joy,  its  lost  treas- 
ure !  But  if  not,  I  will  count  your  silence  as  a  mute  fare- 
well.    A  farewell !  and  between  us,  who — " 

Here  two  or  three  lines  were  carefully  obliterated,  and 
the  letter  ended  abrnj^tly  with  one  last  blessing,  the  mourn- 
ful tenderness  of  which  would  have  brought  tears  to  any 
eyes  but  those  cold,  hard  ones  that  read  it. 

Mrs.  Breynton  now  discovered,  like  many  another  short- 
sighted plotter,  that  her  scheme  had  worked  its  own  ruin. 
With  Philip's  final  parting  from  Eleanor  she  herself  would 
lose  her  remaining  influence  over  his  futui-e  destiny.  And 
such  a  separation  must  be  the  inevitable  consequence  of 
the  silence  Avhich  could  be  the  only  answer  to  her  nephew's 
letter,  unless  she  made  a  full  confession  of  her  own  duplici- 
ty. And,  even  then,  Avhat  would  result?  A  joyful  recon- 
ciliation, and  Philip's  speedy  union,  not  with  the  portion- 
less Eleanor,  but  Avith  Dean  Sedley's  heiress,  thus  forever 
excluding  that  ecclesiastical  life  which  now  more  than  ever 
Mrs.  Breynton  wished  to  force  upon  her  nephew.  She  Avas 
taken  in  her  own  toils.  She  Avrithed  beneath  them;  and, 
Avliile  helplessly  she  turned  over  in  her  mind  some  means 
of  escape,  a  knock  came  to  the  door.  The  dull  red  mount- 
ed to  her  pale,  Avithered  cheek  as  Mrs.  Breynton,  Avith  an 
instinctive  impulse,  tottered  across  the  room,  and  hid  Phil- 
ip's letter  in  her  escritoire. 

"May  I  come  in,  dear  friend?"  murmured  a  tremulous 
voice  outside.  And  Eleanor  entered,  almost  weeping,  yet 
with  a  strange  happiness  shining  in  her  face  and  mien. 
She  had  the  lawyer's  letter  in  her  hand,  and,  without  speak- 
ing, she  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Breynton.  The  latter  read  it  me- 
chanically, glad  of  any  excuse  to  escape  those  beaming,  in- 
nocent eyes.  Then  she  rose  up  and  touched  Eleanor's 
brow  with  her  frigid  lips. 

"I  Avish  you  joy,  my  dear.     You  are  a  good  girl,  niul  de- 


248  THE    OGILVIES. 

serving  of  all  happiness.  Mr,  Sedley  was  right  to  leave  his 
fortune  where  it  would  be  worthily  used.  I  hope  that  it 
may  prove  a  blessing  to  you." 

"It  will!  it  will!  Oh,  how  glad,  how  thankful  I  am!''" 
cried  Eleanor,  as  her  thoughts  flew  lar  over  land  and  sea 
to  where  her  heart  was.  Thither  she  herself  would  soon 
journey,  to  drive  away  with  one  word,  one  smile,  the  light 
cloud  which  had  come  between  her  and  Philip;  and  then 
pour  out  all  her  new  store  at  his  feet,  joyful  that  she  could 
bring  to  him  at  once  both  richness  and  happiness,  worldly 
fortune  and  faithful  love. 

Mrs.  Breynton  regarded  her  with  a  cold,  suspicioi;s  glance. 

"  I  do  not  often  seek  to  knoAV  your  concerns,"  she  said, 
sharply.  "  Indeed,  I  have  carefully  abstained  from  inter- 
fering with  them  in  any  way  ever  since  you  have  resided 
with  me,  Miss  Ogilvie." 

"  Do  not  call  me  thus.  Say  Eleanor,'''  was  the  beseech- 
ing answer. 

"  Well,  then,  Eleanor,  may  I  be  excused  for  asking  why 
a  not  very  worldly-minded  girl  like  you  should  be  so  ex- 
traordinarily happy  at  receiving  this  legacy?  What  do 
you  intend  to  do  with  it?"  Eleanor  was  accustomed  to 
the  sudden  changes  of  temper  Avhich  the  invalid  often 
exhibited,  but  now  there  was  a  deeper  meaning  in  Mrs. 
Breynton's  searching,  irritated  look.  It  brought  a  quick 
blush  to  the  girl's  cheek  ;  and,  though  she  did  not  reply, 
she  felt  that  her  silence  was  penetrated  and  resented. 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  now  that  you  are  become 
an  independent  lady?"  was  the  bitter  question  which  deep- 
ened the  flush  still  more. 

"I  always  loas  independent — Hugh  took  care  of  that — 
and,  if  not,  I  would  have  made  myself  so,"  said  Eleanor, 
rather  proudly.  "  But  you  know  I  staid  with  you  by  your 
own  wish— and  my  own  too,"  she  added,  in  her  gentlest 
tone,  "  to  love  you,  and  be  a  daughter  to  you.  How  could 
you  think  I  should  forget  all  this,  Mrs.  Breynton  ?" 

"Well,  we  Avill  not  talk  about  tlml,"  muttered  the  old 
lady,  with   a  slight  change  of  feature.     "  You  will  stay, 


THE    OGILVIES,  249 

then  ?  Other  people  may  not  be  more  forgetful  of  kind- 
ness shown  to  their  old  age  than  was  Dean  Sedley.  You 
will  not  leave  me,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  threw  herself  oa  her  knees  beside  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton's  chair.  "  We  will  not  leave  you,"  she  whispered. 
"  Oh,  dear  friend !  now  this  good  fortune  has  come,  let  me 
be  your  very  own — your  child — your  niece,  and  forgive  us 
both.  Indeed  we  have  suifered  very  much — I  and — Phil- 
ip !"  The  long-forbidden  name  burst  from  her  lips  accom- 
panied by  a  flood  of  tears.  Mrs.  Breynton  started  and 
stood  upright. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  marry  that  un- 
grateful fool !  that  beggar  !  who  has  insulted  his  aunt,  and 
disgraced  his  family  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  show  your  love 
for  me?  Eleanor  Ogilvie,  you  may  become  my  niece  if 
you  will,  but  it  shall  be  an  empty  name,  for  you  shall  nev- 
er see  my  face  again.  So  choose  between  me  and  him 
whose  name  you  have  dared  to  utter.  If  I  hear  it  spoken 
in  my  presence  again,  it  shall  be  echoed  by  my  lips  too, 
but  after  it  shall  come  a  curse !"  And  the  aged  woman, 
overpowered  by  this  storm  of  anger,  sank  back  in  her  chair. 
Eleanor,  trembling  in  every  limb,  sprang  up  to  assist  her, 
but  she  pushed  her  aside. 

"Call  Davis;  I  want  no  one  else.  Go  away."  Eleanor 
dared  not  disobey,  for  she  was  terrified  at  this  burst  of 
passion,  the  first  she  had  ever  seen  in  Mrs.  Breynton.  She 
summoned  the  maid,  and  was  gliding  out  of  the  room, 
when  the  old  lady  called  her  back,  and  said  in  a  low,  hoarse 
Avliisper:  "Remember,  Eleanor,  before  either  of  us  sleep 
this  night,  I  will  know  your  intention  one  way  or  the  oth- 
er. I  must  have  your  promise,  your  solemn  promise,  to 
last  your  life  long,  or  if  not — " 

Her  voice  ceased,  but  her  eyes  expressed  the  rest.  That 
look  of  anger,  doubt,  threatening,  and  yet  entreaty,  haunt- 
ed Eleanor  for  many  hours.  How  sore  a  strait  for  one  so 
young !  Her  heart  was  almost  rent  in  twain.  It  Avas  the 
old  contest,  old  as  the  world  itself — the  strife  between  duty 
and  love. 


250  THE    OGILVIES. 

Most  writers  on  this  subject  are,  "\ve  think,  somewhat  in 
the  Avrong.  They  never  oonsider  that  love  is  duty — a 
most  solemn  aiid  holy  duty  !  He  who,  loving-  and  being 
beloved,  takes  upon  himself  this  second  life,  this  glad  bur- 
den of  another's  happiness,  has  no  right  to  sacriiice  it  for 
any  other  human  tie.  It  is  the  fashion  to  extol  the  self- 
devotion  of  the  girl  who,  for  parental  caprice,  or  to  work 
out  the  happiness  of  some  love-lorn  sister,  gives  up  the 
chosen  of  her  heart,  whose  heart's  chosen  she  knows  her- 
self to  be.  And  the  man  who,  rather  than  make  a  loving- 
woman  a  little  poorer  in  worldly  wealth — but  oh,  how  rich 
in  affection  ! — ])roudly  conceals  his  love  in  his  own  breast, 
and  will  not  utter  it— he  is  deemed  a  self-denying  hero  ! 
Is  this  right  ? 

You  writers  of  moral  fiction,  who  exalt  to  the  skies  sac- 
rifices such  as  these,  what  would  you  say  if  for  any  cause 
under  heaven  a  wife  gave  up  a  husband,  or  a  husband  a 
wife,  each  dooming  the  other  to  suffering  worse  than 
death  ?  And  is  the  tie  between  two  hearts  knitted  to- 
gether by  mutual  love  less  strong,  less  sacred,  before  the 
altar-vow  than  after  it  ?  Is  not  the  breaking  of  such  bond 
a  sin,  even  though  no  consecrated  ordinance  has  rendered 
the  actual  perjury  visible  guilt? 

When  will  you,  wdio  with  the  world-wide  truths  of  the 
ideal  show  forth  what  is  noblest  in  humanity,  boldly  put 
forward  this  law  of  a  morality  higher  and  more  wholesome 
than  all  your  tales  of  sacrifices  on  filial  and  paternal  shrines 
— that  no  power  on  earth  should  stand  between  two  beings 
who  worthily,  holily,  and  faithfully  love  one  another? 

By  this  law  let  us  judge  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 


THE    OGILVIES.  251 


CHAPTER  XXXIIT. 

Countess.  Now  I  see 

The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head. 

Helena.  My  dearest  madam, 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do. — Shakspeake. 

It  was  almost  night  before  Eleanor  was  summoned  to 
the  chamber  ofMrs.  Breynton.  The  latter  had  already  re- 
tired to  rest;  and  Uavis,  on  quitting  the  room,  whispered 
that  her  mistress  had  seemed  any  thing  but  well  for  sev- 
eral hours.  In  truth,  the  thin,  white,  aged  face  that  lay  on 
the  pillow  was  very  difierent  from  the  stern,  haughty  coun- 
tenance of  old.  If  Mrs.  Breynton  had  any  idea  of  working 
out  her  purpose  by  touching  Eleanor's  feelings,  she  cer- 
tainly went  the  right  way  to  do  so.  The  poor  girl,  strong 
as  she  had  been  a  few  minutes  before,  felt  weak,  abnost 
gviilty  now.  She  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  silent  and  trem- 
bling. 

Mrs.  Breynton  did  not  speak ;  l)ut  the  imperious  eyes, 
which  anger  had  lighted  up  with  all  the  fires  of  youth,  im- 
placably asked  the  dreaded  question.  Eleanor  trembled 
still  more.  "Dear  Mrs. Breynton,  do  not  let  us  talk  now; 
it  is  so  late,  and  you  are  wearied.     Let  me  Avait  until  to- 


morrow." 


"But  i'will  not  wait.  I  never  break  my  word.  I  told 
you  I  must  have  an  answer,  and  I  will.  Eleanor  Ogilvie, 
before  I  sleep  you  must  promise  that  you  will  not  throw 
away  yourself  and  your  fortune  by  marrying  that  vile,  dis^ 
honored,  ungrateful  nephew  of  mine." 

Eleanor's  spirit  was  roused.  Is  there  any  loving  wom- 
an's that  would  not  be?  "You  are  mistaken,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton ;  such  appellations  are  not  meet  for  Philip  Wychnor." 

"Ah!  you  dare  utter  his  name  after  what  I  have  said! 
Have  you  forgotten  ?" 


ii52  THE    OGILVIES. 

"I  have  forgotten  all  that  was  Avrong — all  that  you  your- 
self would  soon  Avish  to  forget.  Why  do  you  feel  so  bit- 
terly toward  liini — yon,  whom  he  loved  so  dearly — you, 
who  loved  him  too,  once,  and  thought  him  so  good  and  so 
noble-minded — as  he  is  still?" 

"  It  is  a  lie  !  and  you  defend  him  to  my  face  !" 

"Because  he  has  no  one  else  to  defend  him.  And  who 
but  I  should  have  a  right  to  do  so — I,  who  love  him,  and 
have  loved  him  since  I  was  a  girl — I,  who  have  known  ev- 
ery thought  of  his  heart — who  am  his  plighted  Avife  in  the 
siglit  of  heaven?  Oh,  Mrs.  Breynton,  how  can  you  ask  me 
to  give  him  up  ?"  The  speech,  begun  firmly,  ended  with 
tearful  entreaty.  Even  the  storm  of  invective  that  had 
risen  to  Mrs.  Breynton's  lips  died  away  unuttered.  It 
might  be  that  for  the  moment  she  saw  in  the  pale,  droop- 
ing face  and  clasped  hands  the  likeness  of  Eleanor's  dead 
mother,  with  all  her  struggles  and  sufferings.  The  harsh 
voice  became  a  little  softer  Avhen  she  said, "  You  are  blind- 
ed, Eleanor,  or  you  Avould  see  that  it  is  for  your  own  good 
I  ask  this.  You  do  not  give  up  him — he  gives  up  you. 
Nay,  do  not  speak — I  say  he  does.  Where  is  the  honor  of 
a  man  who  keeps  a  young  girl  waiting  for  him  year  after 
year?  A  worthy  lover  he  is,  who  talks  of  his  sentimental 
affection,  and  forsooth  says  he  is  too  poor  to  marrj^,  Avhiie 
by  his  own  folly  he  chooses  to  remain  so  !  This  is  how  he 
would  treat  you,  until  you  grow  old,  and  then  he  would  go 
and  marry  some  one  younger  and  richer.  It  is  like  men ; 
they  ai*e  all  the  same  !"  The  old  lady  paused  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  young  creature  before  her.  Eleanor  had  risen 
and  stood  by  the  bedside,  not  Aveeping,  but  composed. 

"Mrs.  Breynton,"  she  said,  in  a  Ioav,  quiet  tone,  "you 
have  been  ever  kind  to  me,  and  I  am  grateful.  Besides, 
you  are  dear  to  me  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  his,  Avhose 
name  I  Aviil  not  speak  if  it  offends  you.  But  I  can  go  no 
further.  It  ])ains  me  very  much  to  hear  you  talk  in  this 
way.  I  oAve  you  all  respect,  but  I  also  owe  some  to  him 
whose  wife  I  have  promised  to  be." 

"And  you  Avill — in  spite  of  all — you  Avill  be  his  wife?" 


THE    OGILVIES.  253 

"Yes!" 

The  word  -v/as  scarcely  above  a  breath,  but  it  said 
enough.  Love  had  given  to  the  timid,  gentle-hearted  girl 
a  strength  that  was  able  to  stand  firm  against  the  world. 
To  that  "  Yes  !"  there  came  no  answer.  It  controlled  even 
the  outburst  of  Mrs.  Breynton's  wrath.  She  lay  silent,  un- 
able to  remove  her  eyes  from  this  young  girl,  so  meek  and 
yet  so  resolute — so  patient,  yet  so  brave.  But,  though  re- 
strained by  this  irresistible  influence,  the  storm  raged  with- 
in until  it  shook  every  fibre  of  the  aged  frame.  It  seemed 
as  though  in  her  life's  decline  Mrs.  Breynton  vras  destined 
to  feel  the  vehement  passions  which  in  her  dull  youth  and 
frigid  middle  age  had  never  been  awakened. 

Eleanor,  startled  by  her  silence,  yet  drawing  from  it  a 
faint  ray  of  hope,  gathered  courage.  Kneeling  down  by 
the  bedside,  she  would  have  taken  one  of  Mrs.  Breynton's 
hands,  but  they  were  too  tightly  clenched  together. 

"  Dear  friend — my  mother's  friend  !"  she  cried, "  do  not 
try  me  so  bitterly.  If  you  knew  what  it  costs  me  to  say 
this  one  word — and  yet  I  can  not  but  say  it.  How  can  I 
give  up  my  own  Philip  ?"  And  in  the  sorrow  and  strug- 
gle of  the  moment  she  spoke  to  jMrs.  Breynton  as  in  her 
maiden  timidity  she  had  never  spoken  to  any  human  be- 
ing. "Has  he  not  been  my  playfellow,  ray  friend,  these 
many  years?  Did  not  you  yourself  first  teach  me  to  love 
him  by  telling  me  how  good  he  was,  and  by  bringing  us 
constantly  together,  boy  and  girl  as  we  were?" 

"  I  did — I  did.  I  wished  to  atone  to  poor  IsabePs  child 
for  the  wrong  done  to  her  mothei*.  Fool  that  I  Avas,  to 
trust  the  son  of  such  a  father  !" 

Not  hearing,  or  not  noticing  the  words,  Eleanor  went  ou 
with  her  earnest  pleading. 

"How  could  we  help  loving  one  another;  or,  loving, 
how  could  we,  by  your  will,  break  at  once  through  these 
dear  ties,  and  never  love  each  other  again  ?  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton, I  owe  you  much,  but  I  owe  Philip  more.  He  chose  me ; 
he  gave  me  his  true,  noble  heart,  and  I  will  keep  it  faithful- 
ly and  truly.  He  loves  me,  he  trusts  me,  and  I  will  never 
forsake  him  while  I  live." 


254  THE    OGILTIES. 

Mrs,  Broyiiton  saw  lier  last  chance  of  regainino;  pow?r 
fading  from  lier,  and  yet  she  dared  not  speak.  Goaded  on 
almost  to  niadncfss,  she  gazed  on  that  yonng  face,  now- 
grown  serene  with  the  shining  of  the  })erfect  faith  and  per- 
fect love  which  '*  casteth  ovit  fear."  It  did  not  shi'ink  even 
from  those  gleaming  eyes,  wherein  the  wild  fires  of  stormi- 
est youtli  contended  with  the  dimness  of  age. 

"Eleanor  Ou-ilvie,"  she  said,  hoarselv,  "  what  do  vou  in- 
tend  to  do  with  this  fortnne?'' 

''  To  wait  until  I  again  meet  him  wlio  has  a  right  to  all 
my  love — all  my  riches,  and  then,  if  he  so  wishes,  to  make 
both  his  own."' 

At  tliese  words  Mrs.  Breynton,  driven  to  desperation  alike 
by  wrath  and  fear  of  discovery,  snatched  blindly  at  any 
means  of  kee])ing  asunder, for  a  time  at  least,  those  two  to 
whom  a  few  words  of  heart-contidence  would  reveal  all  her 
own  machinations. 

"You  are  mad — deceived,"  cried  she, vehemently.  "How 
do  you  know  that  he  remembers  you  still?  What  does 
j-our  brother's  letter  say? — that  he  is  gay, prosperous." 

"There  is  nothing  in  that  to  pain  me.  Philip,  happ)-, 
loves  me  as  well  as  Philip,  sorrowful,"  she  murmured,  say- 
ing the  last  M'ords  in  a  musing  tone. 

"  Then  why  does  he  not  show  his  love  ?  Why  does  he 
not  come  and  claim  you  to  share  his  fortune?  But  I  tell 
vou,  Eleanor  Ogilvie,  vou  are  blinded  bv  this  follv.  I 
know" — and  for  the  first  time  her  lips  shrank  not  from  a 
deliberate  lie — "  I  know  more  than  you  do  of  his  selfishness 
and  unworthiness.  He  only  waits  an  excuse  to  cast  you  oif. 
He  has  said  so." 

Eleanor  shrunk  back  a  little,  and  a  slight  pain  smote  her 
heart.     "Will  you  tell  me—" 

"Ko,  no.  I  Avill  not  tell  vou  anv  thino;  "  hastilv  said  the 
conscience-stricken  woman.  "They  who  informed  me  spoke 
truth,  S.Z  I  firmly  believe." 

"  But  I  do  not — I  ought  not."  And  once  more  the  beau- 
tiful light  of  confiding  love  returned  to  the  face  of  the  young 
betrothed.     "Who  knows  Philip  AVychuor  so  well  as  I? 


THE    OGILTIES.  2do 

Therefore  it  is  I  who  should  trust  him  most.  And  I  do 
trust  him  I" 

''  Then  you  will  leave  your  mothers  friend,  who  Avould 
have  been  a  mother  to  you — leave  her  without  a  child  to 
comfort  her  old  age." 

''  What  shall  I  do — what  ought  I  to  do  ?*'  cried  Elea- 
nor, her  gentle  heart  wruno:  to  the  verv  core  bv  this  con- 
flict. 

"  Go  awav — <ro  awav.  I  never  wish  to  see  vour  face 
again  I"  And  the  voice  rose  sharper  and  sharper.  Mrs. 
Breynton  lifted  herself  up  in  bed,  with  flashing  and  out- 
stretched hands,  which  she  shook  with  a  threatening  gest- 
ure, as  though  the  malediction  which  Philip  had  scarce 
escaped  were  about  to  tail  on  his  affianced. 

Eleanor,  mute  with  horror,  instinctively  moved  towards 
the  door ;  but,  on  reaching  it,  she  stood  irresolute.  It  was 
one  of  those  crises  which  sometimes  occur  in  life,  when 
right  and  wrong  seem  confounded  ;  when  we  feel  ourselves 
driven  blindly  along  without  power  to  say,  '"  This  is  the 
true  way :  I  Avill  walk  therein,  God  helping  me."  Poor 
Eleanor  I  in  either  course  she  took,  all  seemed  darkness, 
suffering,  and,  still  more,  sin.  Strong  as  she  was  in  lier 
faithful  devotion  to  Pliilip.  when  she  thought  of  Philip's 
aunt,  she  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  done  wrong.  From  an 
impulse  more  than  a  settled  intent,  she  laid  her  hand  again 
oji  the  door,  paused  a  moment,  and  then  re-entered  the 
chamber. 

AIi-s.  Breynton  was  leaning  forward  with  her  face  on  her 
hands ;  the  storm  of  passion  had  spent  itself  and  tears  were 
dropping  fast  between  her  poor  thin  lingei^s.  Eleanor's 
heart  sprang  towards  the  desolate  woman  with  resistless 
tenderness.  She  put  her  arms  round  her ;  she  laid  the  aged 
head  on  her  young  bosom.just  as  she  had  used  to  rest  her 
own  mother's  during  many  a  long  night  of  suffering — as 
she  had  done  on  that  last  night  until  the  moment  when 
sufferincc  merged  into  the  peace  of  death.  The  action 
awoke  all  these  memories  like  a  tide.  The  orphan  felt 
drawn  with  a  fullness  of  love  to  her  who  had  been  tlie 


256  THE    OGILVIES. 

friend  of  the  dead,  and  the  motherless  and  the  childless 
clung  together  in  a  close  embrace. 

"  You  Avill  not  send  me  away  from  yon,  Mrs.  Breynton  ?" 

"  Never  !"  was  the  ansAver.  "  And  you  will  stay  with 
me,  Eleanor,  my  child ;  that  is,  until — No,  I  can  not  talk 
about  it  yet ;  but  in  time — in  time — " 

Mrs.  Breynton  said  no  more ;  and  this  was  the  only  ex- 
planation to  which  they  came.  Yet  Eleanor  felt  satisfied 
that  a  change  had  passed  over  the  mind  of  Philip's  aunt — 
slight,  indeed,  but  greater  than  she  had  ever  dared  to  hoj)e. 
From  that  night  the  icy  barrier  seemed  broken  down  be- 
tween them.  Though  Mrs.  Breynton  never  spoke  of  her 
nephew,  still  she  bore  at  times  the  chance  mention  of  his 
name ;  and  often,  even  after  it  had  been  uttered,  she  would 
regard  Eleanor  with  a  vague  tenderness,  and  seem  on  the 
point  of  saying  something  which  yet  never  rose  to  her  lips. 
This  filled  the  young  girl  with  haj^py  hope,  so  that  she 
bore  patiently  the  long  silence  between  herself  and  Philip, 
waiting  until  her  return  home  should  solve  all  doubt,  and 
show  him  that  even  this  temporary  alienation  was  a  sacri- 
fice for  his  sake,  in  order  that  the  work  of  the  peacemaker 
might  be  finished  with  joy. 

Eleanor  never  guessed  from  how  much  remorse  sprang 
the  new  gentleness  which  the  dean's  Avidow  continually 
showed  tOAvards  her.  After  a  little  longer  sojourn  abroad, 
Mrs.  Breynton  began  restlessly  to  long  after  home,  instan- 
cing the  necessity  for  Eleanor's  being  at  L to  look  after 

her  OAvn  little  fortune.  The  young  girl  prepared  gladly 
for  the  journey,  and  tried  to  see  in  the  reason  urged  only 
an  excuse  framed  by  this  still  haughty  spirit,  Avilling  and 
yet  half-ashamed  to  make  the  concession  that  would  giA^e 
so  much  happiness.  And  with  such  diverse  feelings  did 
Mrs.  Breynton  and  her  young  companion  again  set  foot  in 
L . 


THE   OGILVIES.  257 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Most  men 
Are  cradled  into  poesy  by  wrong : 
They  leani  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

Shelley. 
Life  is  real — life  is  earnest, 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
"Dust  thou  art — to  dust  retumest," 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. — Longfellow. 

"So  your  young  bridesniuid  has  really  followed  your 
example,  and  is  gone  on  her  honeymoon  trip,"  said  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  as  she  nervously  prepared  herself  for  the 
martyrdom  of  a  drawing-room  ttte-d-tete  Avith  her  stylish 
daughter-in-law.  This  was  after  the  usual  Sunday  dinner 
— the  hebdomadal  sacrifice  on  the  family  shrine — which  its 
new  member  always  considered  a  "horrid  bore." 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  has  come  back  again,  too,"  answered 
Mrs.  Frederick,  throwing  herseli  on  a  sofa  by  the  window, 
while  the  elder  Mrs.  Pennythorne  sat  bolt  upright  by  her 
side  on  one  of  the  frail,  comfortless  fabrics  which  her  hus- 
band's omnipotent  taste  liad  provided  for  the  drawing- 
room  chairs.  "They  made  a  short  wedding  tour,  did 
Hugh  and  Katharine — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  I  mean ;  but 
one  can't  get  over  old  habits,  and  my  cousins  and  I  were 
such  friends,  especially  Hugh,"  simpered  the  young  bride. 

"Were  you,  indeed?— oh,  of  course,  being  relaiions," 
absently  replied  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  She  made  the  quiet- 
est and  most  submissive  mother-in-law  in  the  world  to  Isa- 
bella; indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  considerably  afraid 
of  her  son's  gay,  fashionable  wife.  ''  They  seemed  both 
very  nice  young  people ;  I  hope  they  will  be  happy,"  add- 
ed she,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  converse. 

"  Happy  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  so  !  She  is  not  the  best  of 
tempers,  to  be  sure;  and  I  don't  think  Hugh  would  have 
married  her  if  he  had  not  been  dragged  into  it,  so  to  speak. 

M 


258  -  THE    OGILYIFS. 

He  used  to  pay  me  a  great  deal  of  attention  once."  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  opened  her  eyes  a  little  wider  than  usual. 
She  thought  this  style  of  conversation  rather  odd  in  her 
son's  wife,  but  it  w^as,  perhaps,  tlie  way  of  fashionable 
young  ladies.  She  merely  said  "  Indeed !"  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  w^atching  the  people  of  the  square  going  to 
evening  service,  and  listening  to  the  heavy,  monotonous 
tone  of  the  solitary  bell. 

"How  disacfreeable  it  must  be  to  live  near  a  church!" 
said  Isabella.  "  I  hate  lliat  ding-dong,  it  is  so  annoying — 
especially  when  it  tolls  for  a  funeral." 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  shivered  perceptibly. 

"Oh,  w^e  have  not  many  funerals  here;  it  is  a  very 
healthy  neighborhood."  There  was  a  silence,  during  which 
the  dull  sound  of  some  one  coughing  feebly  was  heard  in 
the  next  room. 

"  Can  you  amuse  yourself  Avith  a  book  for  a  minute  or 
two,  while  I  go  and  speak  to  Leigli  ?  I  always  do  so  after 
dinner,"  said  the  mother,  meekly  apologizing. 

"Oh  yes!  And, by-the-by,  that  reminds  me  I  have  not 
yet  asked  after  Leigh.     He  is  much  as  usual, I  suppose?" 

"A  little  better,  avc  think.  He  likes  those  drives  in 
your  pony-chaise  so  much,  and  they  are  sure  to  do  him 
good." 

"Well,  he  can  have  the  carriage  any  morning.  I  never 
stir  out  till  after  luncheon.  Only  he  must  not  go  too  far, 
so  as  to  tire  out  the  horses  before  I  want  them." 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  that.  Leigh  can  not  take  long 
rides.  He  does  not  get  strong  very  fast.  The  doctor  says 
we  must  not  expect  it  at  present.  But  it  is  such  fine  May 
weather  now,  and  he  is  really  improving,"  said  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne, moving  from  the  room. 

Isabella  looked  after  her,  and  tossed  her  head.  "None 
ai-e  so  blind  as  those  who  won't  see,"  said  she  to  herself 
Then  glancing  down  at  her  splendid,  gay-tinted  satin, 
"  How  provoking  it  will  be  to  put  it  aside  for  horrible,  un- 
becoming black ;  and  one  can't  take  to  one's  wedding- 
dresses  twelve  month's  after  marriage.     What  a  nuisance 


THE    OGILVIES.  259 

it  is — that  boy  dying !"  And  during  the  ten  minutes  of 
solitude  Mrs.  Fredericlc  occupied  herself  in  considering 
whether,  considering  all  things,  it  would  not  be  advisable 
to  give  her  first  evening  party  at  once,  without  postponing 
it  for  the  usual  prior  I'ound  of  bridal  entertainments. 

"  One  may  as  well  make  the  most  of  time,  for  one  never 
knows  vvliat  may  happen,"  said  the  young  wife,  whose 
whole  life  of  vain  heartlessness  was  a  contradiction  to  the 
moral  she  drew.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  returned  to  her  seat 
by  the  window;  and  the  elder  and  younger  matron  tried 
to  keep  up  a  desultory  talk,  broken  by  two  or  three  ill-con- 
cealed yawns  from  the  latter. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  one  always  gets  so  stuj)id  at 
this  time  of  the  evening — at  least  I  do.  I  quite  hate  the 
tAvilight." 

"We  might  shut  it  out  and  have  candles,  only  I  prom- 
ised Leigh  that  I  would  watch  for  Mr.Wychnor  round  the 
square:  he  never  misses  coming  on  a  Sunday  evening,  you 
know,  and  the  boy  is  so  glad  to  see  him.  Perhaps  you 
would  not  mind  waiting  a  little  without  lights,  just  to  hu- 
mor poor  Leigh  ?"  observed  the  mother-in-law,  humbly. 

"  Oh  dear  no !  don't  inconvenience  yourself  on  my  ac- 
count," languidly  answered  Mrs.  Frederick  ;  and  after  in- 
wardly resolving  to  make  one  last  attempt  to  keep  "  that 
nice  young  Wychnor"  by  her  side  in  the  drawing-room,  in- 
stead of  suftering  him  to  spend  nearly  the  whole  evening, 
as  usual,  in  Leigh's  room,  Isabella  began  to  dilate  on  her 
favorite  subject,  "my  cousins,  the  Ogilvies" — tlieir  great 
wealth  and  connections — the  beautiful  villa  that  Hugh  and 
Katharine  had  taken  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  the  elegant 
and  costly  style  in  which  it  was  furnished.  Contented  with 
monosyllabic  answers,  Mrs.  Frederick  had  thus  gone  on  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  her  mother-in-law  interrupted 
her  with  tlie  information  that  she  must  go  and  tell  Leigh 
that  Mr.Wychnor  was  turning  the  corner  of  the  square. 
Thereupon  Isabella  smoothed  her  dress,  pulled  her  ringlets 
out  properly,  and  awaited  Mr.  Wychnor's  entrance.  The 
preparation  was  vain,  for  he  went  at  once  to  Leigh's  room. 


260  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning  than  to  the 
house  of  feasting."  And  better,  far  better,  to  stand  face  to 
jfjace  with  the  struggling,  the  sorrowful,  nay,  even  the  dy- 
ing, than  to  dwell  entirely  amidst  a  world  of  outside  show. 
More  precious  is  it  to  trace  the  earnest  throbs  of  the  most 
wounded  heart,  than  to  live  among  those  human  machines 
to  whom  existence  is  one  daily  round  of  dullness  and  fri- 
volity. Looking  on  these,  Youth,  with  its  bursting  tide  of 
soul  and  sense,  shrinks  back  aghast :  "  Oh,  God  !"  rises  the 
prayer,  "  let  me  not  be  as  these !  Ratlier  let  my  pulses 
swell  like  a  torrent,  pour  themselves  out  and  cease — let 
heart  and  brain  work  their  work,  even  to  the  perisliing  of 
both — be  my  life  short  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  but  let  it  be 
a  life  full,  strong,  rich — perchance  a  day  only,  but  one  of 
those  days  of  heaven  which  are  as  a  thousand  years !" 

When  Philip  Wychnor  came  into  Leigh's  room  the  boy 
had  fallen  asleep— as  he  often  did  in  the  twilight.     He 
roused  himself,  however,  to  give  his  friend  a  welcome  ;  but 
his  mother  and  Pliilip  pei'suaded  him  to  rest  again  until 
tea.     Just  then  the  sharp  call  of  "  Cillie,  my  dear,"  resound- 
ed through  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Pennythorne  vanished.   Phil- 
ip Wychnor  sat  in  the  growing  darkness,  holding  the  feeble 
hand  in  his,  and  listening  to  the  breathing  of  the  sleeper. 
It  is  a  solemn  thing,  tliis  vigil  beside  those  over  whom, 
day  after  day,  the  shadow  of  death  is  creeping,  whom  we 
seem  to  be  ourselves  leading — walking  step  by  step  with 
them  to  the  very  entrance  of  the  dark  valley.     Strange  it 
is  to  think  that  there  we  must  leave  them — needing  our 
guidance  and  su})port  no  more ;  that  in  one  day,  one  hour, 
the  poor  frail  ones,  who  have  for  months  clung  helplessly 
to  us  almost  for  very  existence,  will  be  bodiless  spirits, 
strong,  glorious,  mighty  !  looking  down,  it  may  be,  with 
divine  pity  on  our  weak  humanity.     Then,  ]K'rchance,  with 
a  power  the  limits  of  which  are  yet  iinrevealed— those  to 
whom  we  ministered  may  become  themselves  glad  minis- 
trants  to  us.     As  the  young  man,  in  all  the  strength  of  his 
youth,  sat  beside  that  scarcely-breathing  form,  where  clay 
and  spirit  seemed  linked  together  by  a  thread  so  fine  that 


THE    OGILVIES.  261 

each  moment  might  dissever  them  for  eternity,  he  felt  a 
stranoe  ;iwe  come  over  him. 

There  are  many  phases  which  the  human  soul  must  go 
through  before  it  can  attain  even  that  approximation  to  the 
divine  Avhich  is  possible  on  earth.  We  cling  to  prop  after 
prop ;  Ave  follow  longingly  whichever  of  earth's  beautiful 
and  blessed  things  seems  most  to  realize  that  perfect  ideal 
which  we  call  happiness.  Of  these  joys,  the  dearest,  the 
truest,  the  most  satisfying,  is  that  which  lifts  us  out  of  our- 
selves, and  unites  us  in  heart  and  soul — ay,  and  intellect 
too,  for  the  spirit  must  find  its  mate  to  make  the  union  per- 
fect— with  some  other  human  being.  This  blessed  bond 
we  call  Love.  But  the  chances  of  fortune  come  between 
lis  and  our  desire ;  the  light  passes,  and  we  go  on  our  way 
in  darkness.  There  are  times  when  we  must  stand  alone, 
and  see  earth's  deepest  and  most  real  joys  float  by  like 
shadows  !  Alas  !  we  can  but  strctcli  out  our  arms  toward 
that  Infinite,  which  alone  is  able  to  fill  the  longings  of  an 
immortal  spirit.  Then  with  our  wounded  souls  lying  na- 
ked and  open  before  the  Beholder  of  all,  we  look  ycarnuig- 
ly  toward  the  eternal  and  divine  life,  complete,  unchange- 
able, and  cry  with  solemn,  thankful  voice,  "  O  God,  thy 
fullness  is  sufticient  for  me  ;  O  God,  thy  love  is  an  all- 
boundless  store." 

Through  this  portion  of  his  inward  life  had  Philip  pass- 
ed. But,  while  learning  the  deepest  mystery  of  all,  he  also 
gained  other  knowledge,  other  power.  It  seemed  as  though 
his  intellect  had  sprung  up,  strong  and  mighty,  from  the 
ashes  of  the  fire  which  had  consumed  his  heart.  Perhaps 
the  same  would  be  the  secret  history  of  almost  every  poet- 
soul,  whose  Avords  go  forth  like  lightning;  man  heeding 
not  the  stormy  cloud  and  tempest  from  whence  it  leaps 
forth.  Philip's  world-ideal  had  been  the  woman  he  loved  ; 
when  that  became  a  dream,  as  he  now  deemed  it  was,  all 
human  love  seemed  to  pass  out  of  that  world  with  her. 
The  heart's  life  shut  out — the  soul's  life  began. 

Within  his  spirit  there  dawned  a  new  energy — an  irre^ 
eistible  power  to  work,  to  will,  to  do.     The  individual  sense 


262  THE    OGILVIES. 

was  merged  in  the  universal ;  he  felt  the  deep  fountain  of 
liis  genius  springing  up  within  him.  After  a  season  of 
wrestling  with  that  strong  agony  of  crushed  love — which, 
thank  God  !  no  human  being  can  know  any  more  than 
once — he  arose,  ready  to  fight  the  glorious  battle,  to  begin 
the  blessed  toil  of  those  whom  Heaven  sends  as  lights  unto 
the  world. 

He  had  been  called  an  author.  Now  he  became  one. 
He  joined  that  little  band  of  true  brothers  to  whom  author- 
ship is  a  sacred  thing  ;  a  lay  priesthood,  which,  wearing  the 
garb  of  ordinary  fraternity,  carries  beneath  it  evermore  an 
inward  consecration.  Piiilip  wrote  not  with  the  haughty 
assumption  of  an  apostle  among  men  :  sometimes  in  his 
writings  the  deepest  truth,  the  purest  lore  lay  coiled,  ser- 
pent-like, beneath  garlands  of  flowei's.  But  he  never  for- 
got his  mission,  though  the  word,  often  so  ialsely  assumed, 
Jiad  not  once  passed  his  lips.  God's  truest  messenger  is 
sometimes  not  the  Pharisee  who  harangues  in  the  temple, 
but  the  Publican  wlio  passes  unnoticed  by  the  wayside. 

Yet  Philip  Wychnor  had  his  share  of  honor  and  repute. 
Evei-y  day  his  fame  was  growing;  but  there  was  one  dif- 
ference between  his  present  life  and  his  past.  The  work 
itself  brought  pleasure — at  least  that  sense  of  duty  fulfilled 
wliich  is  likest  pleasure  ;  the  mere  lame  brought  none.  He 
had  no  care  Avhether  it  came  or  not.  For  two  ends  only  is 
renown  precious — for  ambition's  sake  and  for  love's.  Phil- 
i])  had  neither ;  life  to  him  seemed  now  made,  not  for  hap- 
piness, but  for  worthy  toil.  He  stood  in  the  world's  vine- 
yard, not  as  a  joyful  gatherer  of  fruit,  but  as  a  laborer,  pa- 
tient and  active,  yet  looking  toward  the  day's  close  as  tO' 
ward  its  chiefest  joy. 

Was,  then,  this  brave  heart,  worthily  struggling  with 
and  surmounting  fate,  utterly  wuthout  memories  of  the 
sweet  past?  Was  it  grown  so  indifferent  that  oblivion 
brought  no  pain?  Let  many  a  fearful  hour  of  suffering — 
in  the  dead  of  night,  at  intervals  in  the  day's  toil,  or  in  sea- 
eons  of  good  fortune  wherein  tliere  was  no  sharer,  and  of 
fame  become  all  joyless  now— let  these  tell  that  the  young 


THE    OGILVIES.  263 

man  now  mourned  over  his  buried  drtani.  Perchance  this 
sorrow  oppressed  him  even  when  on  this  night  he  sat  in 
the  darkness  beside  the  sick  boy.  Leigh's  deep  sleep  left 
Philip's  thoughts  that  liberty  of  range  which  is  bliss  to  tlie 
happy — to  the  sutiering,  or  those  who  have  suffeix'd,  torture 
indeed.     The  young  man  siglied  heavily  many  times. 

"  Are  you  unhappj",  Philip  ?"  wliispered  a  faint  voice,  and 
the  damp  fingers  he  held  twined  feebly  round  his  own, 

"My  dear  Leigh!  I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"No, not  for  some  minutes;  but  I  fancied  you  were,  un- 
til those  deep  sighs  came.  We  never  sigh  when  we  are 
asleep,  you  know." 

"  Very  seldom :  there  is  no  sorrow  in  sleep,"  murmured 
Philip,  as  if  his  words  had  a  deeper  sense  than  their  appar- 
ent one.  He  had  somehow  caught  a  little  of  this  habit  of 
twofold  speech  from  his  constant  associate  and  friend,  Da- 
vid Drysdale. 

"  What  are  you  saying  about  sorrow  ?"  asked  Leigh. 
"  What  have  you  been  thinking  of?  Not  that  old  grief  of 
which  you  never  speak  ;  and  which,  when  I  found  out  that 
it  was  in  your  heart,  you  said  I  could  not  understand  ?  I 
can  understand  many  things  better  now  ;  perhaps  I  might 
this.     And  you  often  say  I  do  you  good  at  times." 

"Always — always,  my  boy  !  Only  let  us  talk  of  some- 
thmg  else  now.  Be  content,  Leigh  ;  indeed  I  am  so  too,  as 
content  as  one  can  be  in  this  sorrowful  world." 

"Is  it  so  sorrowful,  this  world  of  yours?" 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  yours,''  Leigh  ?" 

"Because — because — you  know  why,  Philip  ;"  and  the 
voice  became  feebler,  more  solemn.  Thei-e  was  no  answer; 
Philip  could  not  breathe  the  lie  of  hope  to  the  sjsirit  which 
seemed  already  spreading  its  pure  wings.  Both  were  silent 
for  a  while,  but  the  mute  hand-clasp  between  them  appear- 
ed to  say  "I  go  !"  "Yea,  thou  goest, blessed  one!"  Leigh 
was  the  first  who  spoke.  "  I  am  not  afraid,  scarcely  sorry 
• — and  yet,  perhaps — Oh,  Philip!  if  you  knew  how  often  in 
the  old  times  I  wished — earnestly  wished,  that  it  might  be 
thus  with  me— that  I  might  get  away  from  that  dull  life 


264  THE    OGILYIES. 

of  torment.  And  now,  when  tlie  wish  comes  true,  I  some- 
times have  thouglit  that  I  should  like  to  stay  a  little  lon- 
ger, that  I  might  do  something  to  atone  for  these  eighteen 
wasted  years.  You  would  not  think  me  thus  old,  childish 
as  I  am?  yet  at  times  I  feel  so  weary,  so  worn,  it  might 
have  been  a  life  of  eighty  years  which  I  lay  down.  Then 
again,  even  when  my  body  is  weakest, my  soul  feels  so  clear 
and  strong  that  I  shrink  from  this  coming  quiet — this  deep 
rest." 

"Not  all  rest,"  answered  Philip,  softly.  "God  never 
meant  it  so  ;  He,  the  Creator,  the  Sustainer,  knoAvs  no  idle 
repose.  Neither  shall  we.  His  servants.  We  shall  work 
His  will — how,  we  can  not  tell,  but  we  shall  do  it,  and  re- 
joice in  the  doing.  Think, Leigh, how  glorious  to  pass  from 
weakness  to  strength — from  suffering  to  action;  perhai)S  to 
be  Heaven's  messengers  throughout  the  wide  universe; 
feeling  nearer  Him,  because,  in  one  measure,  we  share  His 
divinest  attribute — that  of  dispensing  good." 

In  the  darkness,  Philip  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  al- 
most dying  boy,  but  he  felt  the  hand  which  he  still  held 
drawn  nearer  to  its  fellow,  and  both  clasped,  as  in  prayer, 
his  own  still  between  them.  It  seemed  that  even  then 
Leigh  could  not  relinquish  the  hand  Avhich  had  brought 
light  into  his  darkness,  and  guided  him  on  until  he  stood 
at  the  death-portal,  looking  thereon  calmly  and  without 
feai-. 

"  This  is  so  happy  to  hear !"  Leigh  said,  after  a  pause. 
"  Philip,  your  words  are  like  an  angel's — they  always  were 
so  to  me;  and  some  time — not  now,  but  you  know  when 
— will  you  tell  my  mother  all  this  ?  and  say  how  it  Avas 
that  I  never  spoke  thus  to  her,  because  she  could  not  bear 
it.  But  you  will  remember  it  all,  and  it  Avill  sound  as  if  I 
said  it — not  in  my  poor,  weak,  childish  words,  but  with  the 
voice  Avhich  I  shall  have  then."  Philip  promised.  A  little 
while  longer  they  talked  mostly  in  this  strain,  and  then  the 
mother  came  in  Avith  a  liirht. 

"  How  well  Leigh  looks  to  night !"  she  said.  And  truly 
there  Avas  a  strange  spiritual  beauty  over  the  boy's  face. 


THE    OGILVIES.  2G5 

"  He  seems  so  quiet  and  happy !     You  always  do  him  good, 
Mr.Wychiior." 

And  then  through  tlie  open  drawing-room  door  came 
Mrs.  Frederick's  titter,  and  her  husband's  loud  chatter, 
while  above  all  sounded  Mr.  Pennythorne's  decisive  tone. 

"  Cillie,  my  dear,  don't  forget  to  tell  that  excellent  young 
man  that  we  can  not  do  without  him  any  longer;  send 
your  ever-grumbling  boy  to  bed,  and  ask  Mr.Wychnor  to 
come  into  the  drawing-room." 

"Yes,  do  go,  Philip,"  whispered  Leigh;  "it  will  please 
my  father — he  thinks  so  much  of  you  now."  He  did  in- 
deed ;  for  Mr.  Pennythorne  Avas  a  very  Ghebir  in  his  way 
— he  always  turned  worshipingly  towards  the  rising  sun. 

Philip  assented — as  he  would  have  done  to  any  wish  of 
poor  Leigh's.  After  an  affectionate  good-night,  and  a 
promise  to  come  next  day,  he  passed  from  the  sick  boy's 
room,  the  solemn  antechamber  of  death,  into  the  world— 
the  hollow,  frivolous  Avorld — ^of  Mr.  Pennythorne. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


Many  waters  can  not  quencli  love,  neither  can  the  floods  drown  it.   .  .  . 
For  love  is  strong  as  deatli :  jealousy  as  cruel  as  the  grave. — Solomon. 

Let  us  follow  Wychnor  where  his  presence  was  so  ener- 
getically demanded.  In  the  drawing-room  of  Blank  Square 
no  one  could  be  more  abundantly  welcomed  than  he.  Mr. 
Pennythorne  now  delighted  to  honor  his  "very  clever 
young  friend,"  and  told  to  every  body  the  story  of  Philip's 
first  coming  to  London  with  the  introduction  to  himself 
He  would  probably  i-epeat  the  same,  Avith  additions,  for  the 
benefit  and  instruction  of  every  young  man  Avhom  he  chose 
to  patronise  for  the  next  ten  years. 

"Happy  to  see  you,  my  dear  Norwych — Wychnor,  I 
mean,"  said  Mr.  Pennythorne,  correcting  himself,  since  the 
amusing  sobriquet  Avhich  he  had  conferred  on  the  poor  tu- 
tor was  hardly  respectful  enough  to  the  rising  author. 
"Here  we  are  all  striving  to  get  through  the  evening :  Fred 

M  2 


206  THE    OGILVIES. 

is  more  sleepy  than  ever,  and  my  fair  daughter-in-law  evi- 
dently thinking  slie  has  entered  into  the  dullest  family 
party  of  the  three  kingdoms." 

"  Oh  dear  no,  Mr,  Pennythorne,"  disclaimed  Isabella,  who 
got  on  extremely  Avell  with  her  husband's  father.  She  was 
treated  by  him  Avith  great  consideration,  through  the  def- 
erential mockery  of  which  she  Avas  not  acute  enough  to 
penetrate.  She  really  liked  him  the  best  of  the  family,  and 
pronounced  him  to  be  "  a  most  amusing  old  fellow."  "  I 
assure  you,  Mr.Wychnor,  we  have  been  laughing  amazing- 
ly. ]Mr.  Pennythoi'ne  is  so  droll,"  said  she,  striving  by  this 
address  to  bring  the  young  man  in  closer  approximation  to 
her  chair.  But  Philip  only  made  some  ordinary  reply,  and 
sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  considering  Avhat 
excuse  he  could  frame  to  make  his  stay  to-night  in  this  in- 
teresting family  circle  as  brief  as  possible. 

Mr,  Pennythorne  led  the  conversation,  as  he  always  did 
— shooting  his  small  popguns  of  wit  to  the  infinite  amuse- 
ment of  Mrs.  Frederick,  who  was  nevertheless  considerably 
annoyed  that  all  the  attentions  paid  her  came  from  her 
elderly  papa-in-law,  and  none  from  his  young  guest,  Phil- 
ip sat  more  silent  and  quiet  than  usual  until  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne came,  and  then  he  rose  up  to  secure  her  an  arm- 
chair. 

"  He  never  did  that  for  me  in  his  life,  the  bear,"  thought 
Isabella,  It  Avas,  perhaps,  rather  a  fault  in  Philij^s  man- 
ners that)  his  courtesies  and  his  feelings  ahvays  went  to- 
gether in  their  expression. 

"How  does  Leigh  seem  now?"  asked  he,  Addressing  the 
mother,  Avho  Avas  so  accustomed  to  the  young  man's  kind- 
ly attentions  that  she  took  them  Avith  less  nervousness  and 
shyness  from  him  than  any  one  else,  and  requited  the  re- 
spect he  showed  her,  to  Avhich,  poor  Avoman  !  she  was  little 
used,  Avith  a  most  grateful  regard. 

"Leigh  is  really  better  to-night;  you  have  quite  bnght 
ened  him  up,  Mr.Wychnor,  for  he  Avas  so  dull  all  day." 

"  Pray  choose  some  more  interesting  subject,  Cillie,  my 
dear,"  sharply  interposed  Mr.  Pennythorne.    "  Leigh  thinks 


THE    OGILVIES.  267 

far  too  ranch  of  himself  ah'eady ;  and  yon  coax  him  into 
imagining  himself  ill,  becanse  it  looks  interesting,  Tliat  is 
always  the  way  with  women  and  mothers,  bnt  it  will  not 
do  in  ray  family.  Of  course,  nothing  of  consequence  is  the 
matter  with  Leigh."  The  father  spoke  quickly,  almost 
angrily ;  but  there  was  an  uneasy  restlessness  in  his  man- 
ner, which  Philip  had  often  discerned  of  late  when  tlie  boy 
was  mentioned,  and  the  piteous  look  of  jlrs.  Penny thorne 
checked  the  answer  that  was  rising  indignantly  to  the 
young  man's  lips.  There  was  a  constrained  silence.  Then 
Mrs.  Frederick,  quitting  her  husband,  who  was  dropping 
fast  to  sleep  again — his  usual  habit  of  proving  that  Sun- 
day was  indeed  a  day  of  rest — made  another  efibrt  to  draw- 
Philip  into  conversation. 

"I  was  quite  anxious  to  meet  you  to-night,  Mr.  Wych^ 
nor,  as  I  have  a  message  to  you  from  a  friend  of  3'ours,  my 
cousin" — Philip  turned  a  little — "  my  cousin,  Hugh  Ogil- 
vie."  The  remark  only  brought  an  assenting  bow,  and  a 
hope,  very  laconically  expressed,  that  Mr.  Ogilvie  was  quite 
well. 

"Certainly;  how  could  he  be  otiierwise  with  a  young 
bride  to  take  care  of  him  '?"  tittered  Isabella  ;  "  and,  by-the- 
by,  the  message  comes  conjointly  from  her,  which  must  be 
very  flattering,  as  all  the  men  think  ray  cousin  Katharine 
the  most  bewitching  creature  in  the  world.  But  perhaps 
you  have  met  her  ?" 

"I  have,"  answ^ered  Philip.  lie  remembered  but  too 
well  how  and  where  was  that  meeting. 

"Oh!  of  course  you  did — that  night,  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's, 
A  delightful  party,  Avas  it  not  ?  though  no  one  then  thought 
how  soon  my  nice  little  bridesmaid  would  become  a  bride. 
Well,  Mr.  Wychnor,  she  and  her  husband  were  inquiring 
after  you  the  other  day,  and  desii'ed  me  to  say  how  happy 
they  will  be  to  see  you  at  the  Regent's  Park.  They  have 
the  sweetest  villa  in  the  world,  and  are,  or  ought  to  be,  as 
happy  as  two  doves  in  a  cage."  Philip  bowed  again,  and 
muttered  some  acknowledgment  of  the  "kind  invitation." 

"There  never  was  such  a  stupid  young  man,"  thought 


268  THE    OGILVIES. 

Isabella ;  adding  aloud,  "  Hugh  told  me  also  to  say  that 
shortly  they  expected  a  visit  from  his  sister  Eleanor.  He 
says  you  know  her  ?"  Another  silent  assent ;  but  no  deep- 
er pallor  could  show  the  icy  coldness  that  crept  through 
every  fibre  of  Philip's  frame.  Sudden  delicious  trem- 
blings, quick  changes  of  color,  are  the  tokens  of  love's 
hopeful  dawn ;  love's  sorrowful  after-life  knows  none  of 
these.  Philip  sat  still;  he  would  have  "died  and  made  no 
Bign." 

"The  fellow  is  positively  rude — he  might  be  made  of 
stone,"  muttered  the  young  wife,  as  she  turned  indignantjy 
away,  and  relieved  her  feelings  by  pulling  the  hair  of  her 
sleeping  husband  with  a  pretty  gamesomeness  that  made 
her  father-in-law  laugh. 

"  Does  the  light  annoy  you,  Mr.  "Wychnor  ?  This  cam- 
phene  is  always  too  dull  or  too  bright,"  said  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne.     "  Shall  I  move  the  lamp,  if  it  pains  your  eyes  ?" 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all — that  is,  it  does  a  little,"  Philip  an- 
swered, hastily  removing  the  hand  with  which  he  had  been 
shading  his  face.  "My  eyes  are  weak.  I  think  I  sit  up 
too  late  and  work  too  much." 

"  You  do  not  look  quite  well,  indeed ;"  and  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne  regarded  him  with  an  almost  motherly  gaze.  "  You 
should  invariably  go  to  bed  at  eleven,  as  I  always  told 
poor  Leigh."  Here  she  checked  a  sigh,  and  glanced  fear- 
fully to  her  husband.  He  was  performing  a  few  practical 
jokes  on  his  drowsy  eldest-born,  to  the  extreme  delight  of 
that  son's  wife,  who  treated  her  spouse  with  about  as  much 
respect,  and  not  half  as  much  attention,  as  she  showed  to 
her  pet  spaniel. 

"  I  will  come  and  see  Leigh  soon.  And  perhaps  I  had 
better  follow  your  kind  advice,  Mrs.  Penny thorne  ;  so  I  will 
bid  you  good-night  at  once,"  said  Philip,  rising.  Here,  how- 
ever, Mr,  Pennythorne  put  in  his  veto.  "  What !  running 
away  so  soon  ?  Nonsense,  my  dear  young  friend.  Sit 
down  again.  Cillie,  ring  for  the  supper  at  once."  Cer- 
tainly, with  all  his  shortcomings.  Pierce  Pennythorne  never 
failed  in  hospitality.     But  Philip  resisted  successfully  and 


THE    OGILVIES.  2G9 

made  his  adieux.  He  had  gained  the  hall,  when  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne  summoned  him  back. 

"  There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  only  the 
lively  and  amusing  conversation  of  my  gifted  daughter-in- 
law  here  quite  put  it  out  of  my  head.  Pray,  Mr.  Wychnoi-, 
among  the  numberless  invitations  which  must  throng  upon 
a  gentleman  of  your  standing,  are  you  disengaged  on  Thurs- 
day?"    Philip  said  he  was. 

"Then  will  you  dine  here?  In  fact, I  want  you  to  meet 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  a  very  talented  young  man- 
immense  fortune — estates  here,  there,  every  where ;"  and 
Mr.  Pennythornc  nodded  his  head  to  the  four  points  of  the 
compass,  at  which  Frederick  winked  slyly — his  usual  cus- 
tom to  signify  that  his  revered  parent  was  drawing  the 
long-bow. 

"  I  should  be  most  happy,  but — " 

"I  will  take  no  buts,  my  dear  Wychnor.  I  Avant  you 
particularly,  as  my  friend  is  thinking  of  entering  the  House, 
and  wishes  to  stand  for  a  borough  near  that  worthy  old 

city  of  cats  and  canons,  L .     You,  of  course,  having 

lived  there,  as  you  once  mentioned,  know  all  about  the 
place,  and  can  give  him  the  information  he  requires.  Pray 
do  us  the  favor," 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  any  friend  of  yours,  Mr,  Penny- 
thornc," said  Philip,  longing  to  escape, 

"  Then  we  may  expect  you.  Indeed,  you  will  be  of  im- 
mense service  to  my  friend,  if  you  can  tell  him  the  state  of 

politics  and  parties  in shire.     He  wishes  to  settle  in 

England,  but  he  knows  not  a  jot  about  English  affairs,  and 
is  only  just  come  to  town  from  a  long  residence  on  the  Con- 
tinent, You'll  like  him  very  much — there  is  not  a  more 
perfect  gentleman  any  where  than  Mr,  Paul  Lynedon," 

"  Paul  Lynedon  !"  echoed  Philip, 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  know  the  name  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  it.  But  I  am  keeping  you  standing  in 
the  hall.     Good  evening,  Mr.  Pennythorne." 

"  Good  evening.  Remember — Thursday,  at  six,"  The 
young  man  muttered  some  answer  about  being  "  v^ry  hap- 


2  TO  THE    OGILVIES. 

py,"  that  white  lie  of  society  !  But  Philip  hardly  knew 
what  he  said  or  did.  When  he  had  fairly  quitted  the  house 
and  its  atmosphere  of  torture  for  the  cool  night  air,  he 
leaned  against  the  i-ailings,  trembling  all  over. 

Paul  Lynedon  in  London  !  Eleanor  coming  shortly  !  It 
was  all  as  plain  as  light.  If  not  married,  they  were  cer- 
tainly about  to  be.  This  truth  came  as  the  only  possible 
answer  to  his  letter — to  another  wild,  imploring  letter  he 
had  written  since.  The  only  reply  to  both  was  silence. 
Then  his  manhood  took  up  arms,  and  he  wrote  no  mor( . 
He  believed,  or  tried  to  believe,  that  he  had  lost  her.  But, 
now  meeting  the  tangible  fact,  it  caused  him  to  Avritlie  be- 
neath an  almost  insupportable  agony — an  agony  which  he 
had  supposed  was  deadened  and  seared  within  him.  To 
meet  these  happy  ones  face  to  face  !  To  be  called  upon  to 
serve  the  man  who  had  won  his  heart's  treasure — the  love 
of  Eleanor  Ogilvie  ! 

He  could  not  do  it.  He  would  leave  London — he  would 
hide  himself  out  of  their  sight ;  and  in  some  lonely  place 
he  would  pray  Heaven  to  comfort  him,  and  to  cast  out  from 
his  riven  heart  the  very  ashes  of  this  bitter  love.  He 
thought  he  had  trodden  it  down  with  his  firm  will,  his  pa- 
tience, his  proud  sense  of  duty;  and  yet  here  it  was,  burst- 
ing up  afresh  in  torturing  and  burning  flames !  He  wres- 
tled with  it;  he  sped  on  Avitb  rapid  strides  through  the 
loneliest  streets ;  he  bared  his  head,  that  the  fresh  May 
breeze  might  pierce  with  loving  coolness  into  his  brain — • 
and  yet  he  was  half-maddened  still ! 

It  is  a  fearful  thing — this  gathering  up  of  the  love  of 
boyhood,  youth,  and  manliood  into  one  absorbing  passion, 
which  is  life  or  death.  Men  in  general  rarely  know  it ;  the 
sentiment  comes  to  them  in  successive  and  various  forms 
— a  dream  of  romance  and  poetrj'-,  an  intoxication  of  sense, 
a  calm,  tender  esteem ;  but  when  all  these  feelings  are 
merged  into  one — felt  through  life  for  one  object  only — ■ 
then,  what  woman's  devotion,  faithful  and  tender  though 
it  be,  is  like  the  love  of  man  ? 

Philip  reached  his  home  utterly  exhausted  in  body  and 


THE    OGILVIES.  271 

mind.  His  brain  seemed  flooded  with  a  dull,  heavy  pain, 
and  yet  he  must  lie  down  and  try  to  make  it  calm,  ready 
for  a  long  day  of  labor  on  tlie  morrow.  He  must  forget 
the  real  in  the  ideal — he  must  write  on  !  No  matter  Avhat 
were  his  own  heart-tortures,  he  must  sit  down  and  calm- 
ly analyze  the  throbbings  of  the  wild  pulse  of  humanity  as 
displayed  in  the  world  of  imagination.  Perhaps  both  lives, 
that  of  brain  and  heart,  would  unconsciously  mingle  into 
one,  and  men  would  marvel  at  the  strange  truth  to  nature 
— not  knowing  that  every  ideal  line  had  been  written  with 
real  throes  of  agony,  and  that  each  word  had  gleamed  be- 
fore his  eyes  as  thougli  his  soul  had  inscribed  it  with  a 
lightning-pen.  Poor  Philip  !  Heaven  only  knows  tlirough 
what  martyr-fires  souls  like  thine  ascend  to  immortal  fame ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Go  not  away !     Oli,  leave  me  not  alone ! 

I  yet  -would  see  the  light  within  thine  eyes  ; 
I  yet  would  hear  thy  voice's  hea\enly  tone  ; 

Oil,  leave  me  not,  whom  most  on  earth  I  prize ! 
Go  not  away  I  yet  ah  !  dark  shades  I  see 

Creep  o'er  thy  brow — thou  goest ;  but  give  thy  hand ! 
Must  it  be  so  ?     Then  go !     I  follow  thee 

Unto  the  Silent  Land. — Fkkdrika  Bremer. 

So,  life  is  loss,  and  death  felieitie ! — Spenser. 

In  the  morning  Pliilip  Wyehnor  was  laboring  as  usual 
at  his  daily  work  ;  for  it  was  work — real  Avork — tliough  lie 
loved  it  well.  He  applied  liimself  to  it  day  after  day,  not 
waiting  for  inspiration,  as  few  writers  can  afford  to  do,  but 
sedulously  training  liis  mind  to  its  duties,  until  he  roamed 
among  the  beautiful  regions  of  imagination  like  a  man  who 
wanders  in  his  own  pleasant  garden,  having  first  taken  tlie 
proper  measure  of  walking  to  its  gate  and  bringing  tlie 
key. 

Philip  on  this  day  began  his  work  with  a  desperate  en- 
ergy. He  could  not  stay  musing — he  dared  not;  he  fled 
from  the  spectre  that  memory  conjured  up.     Thought  bat- 


272  THE    OGILVIES. 

tied  against  tliouglit.  He  worked  his  brain  almost  to  suf- 
fering, that  he  might  deaden  the  pain  which  gnawed  at  his 
heart.  Nor  was  this  the  first  time  he  had  need  to  be 
thankful  for  that  blessed  dream-life,  that  second  existence, 
which  brings  oblivion  for  the  sorrows  of  the  real  world. 
A  space  since,  and  we  pitied  the  poor  toiler  in  literature, 
obliged  to  rack  his  tortured  brain  in  despite  of  inward 
troubles.  "We  look  at  him  now,  and  see  how  he  grows 
calm  and  brave-hearted,  as,  by  the  power  of  a  strong  will, 
he  passes  from  his  own  small  world  of  personal  sutFering 
into  the  grand  world  wherein  the  author  sits  godlike,  form- 
ing as  it  were  out  of  nothing  new  heavens  and  a  new  earth. 
Shall  we  pity  this  true  man,  who  stands  nearer  to  the  Heav- 
enly Maker  than  other  men,  because  he  also  can  create  ? 
Rather  let  us  behold  him  with  re\'erence — almost  with 
envy — for  he  drinks  of  the  truest,  holiest  Lethe,  where  self 
is  swallowed  up  in  the  universal.  If  at  times  the  shadow 
of  his  own  bitter  thought  is  thrown  across  the  wave,  it  ap- 
pears there  in  an  image  so  spiritualized  that  he  can  look  on 
it  without  pain.  In  the  deep  calm  of  those  pure  waters,  it 
only  seems  like  a  light  cloud  between  him  and  heaven. 

When  Philip  had  written  for  a  few  hours  thei-e  came  a 
message  from  the  Pennythornes  —  or,  rather,  from  Mrs. 
Pennythorne — saying  that  Leigh  felt  so  much  better,  and 
longed  for  a  drive  with  his  dear  friend  Mr.Wychnor.  The 
mother  could  not  go  with  Leigh  herself,  and  could  trust 
him  to  no  one  but  Phili]),  whom  she  entreated  to  come  to 
the  Square  at  once.  This  was  repugnant  enough  to  the 
young  man.  He  would  fixin  fly  from  every  place  where  he 
might  hear  the  sound  of  Paul  Lynedon's  name.  And  yet, 
poor  Leigh  !  At  the  thought  of  him  all  these  earth-feel- 
ings grew  dim ;  they  melted  away  into  nothing  before  the 
awful  shadow  of  Death.  Philip  laid  aside  his  work,  and 
was  soon  by  the  side  of  the  sick  boy. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  !  But  you  are  always  good," 
t;aid  Leigh. 

''  Indeed  he  is  !  I  can  not  tell  what  we  should  do 
without  Mr.Wychnor,"  thankfully  cried  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 


THE    OGILVIES.  273 

Pliilip  pressed  the  hands  of  both,  but  did  not  speak.  They 
little  thought  what  deep  emotion  struggled  in  his  heart — • 
that  poor  torn  heart — Avhicli,  still  madly  loving,  found  it- 
self alone  and  unloved.  Yet  their  few  words  fell  upon  it 
like  balm:  it  was  sweet  to  feel  that  even  now  he  was  of 
use,  and  precious  to  some  one  in  the  wide,  desolate  world. 

"  Leigh  may  take  a  little  longer  drive  to-day,  for  Mrs. 
Frederick  does  not  want  the  carriage,  I  wish  I  were  go- 
ing with  you  both,"  sighed  the  mother;  "but  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne  does  not  like  being  left  alone  when  he  is  writing." 

"  Cillie !  Cillie  !  are  you  going  to  stay  in  Leigh's  room 
all  day?"  resounded  from  the  study  door.  Poor  Mrs.Pen- 
nythorne  cast  a  hopeless  glance  at  Philip,  hastily  kissed  her 
boy,  and  disajipeared  in  a  moment.  Leigh  looked  after  her 
■wistfully.  "I  wish  my  lather  would  let  her  stay  with  me 
a  little  more.  She  Avould  like  it  now,  ii\\<\— afterward ! 
But  she  is  a  good,  dear  mother,  and  she  knows  I  think  so. 
Be  sure  you  tell  her  that  I  did,  Philip."  Wychnor  pressed 
the  boy's  hand :  it  was  a  strange  and  touching  tiling,  this 
calm  mingling  of  death  Avith  life  in  Leigh's  thoughts  and 
words.  He  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  went  on  in  a 
cheerful  tone,  "  You  must  let  me  remain  out  a  good  Avhile 
to-day,  I  feel  so  strong ;  and  perhaps  I  might  stay  a  little 
later,  to  watch  the  sunset.  I  never  can  see  it  from  my 
room,  you  know,  which  seems  rather  hard,  now  the  even- 
ings are  so  beautiful  and  spring-like." 

Philip  soothed  him  as  an  elder  brother  might  have  done, 
and  promised  all,  provided  he  felt  strong  enough.  Then 
he  took  Leigh  in  his  arms  like  a  child,  and  carried  him 
down  stairs  to  the  gay  carriage.  What  different  occu- 
pants Avere  the  fluttering,  fasliionable  young  wife,  and  the 
poor  sick  boy,  who  lay  half  buried  in  cloaks  and  cushions  ! 
Yet  Leigh  lifted  up  his  head  with  a  cheerful  look  when 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  appeared  at  a  window  to  give  her  pait- 
ing  nod  as  they  drove  away.  Philip  saw  the  bright  loving 
smile  that  passed  between  mother  and  son — he  thouglit  of 
it  afterward  many  a  time. 

"  Now,  where  shall  Ave  go  ?"  Avas  the  first  question  pro- 


274  THE    OGILVIES, 

posed,  as  they  drove  along  the  intermediate  Kensington 
High  Street. 

Leigh  pleaded  for  some  quiet  road :  he  wanted  to  go  far 
out  into  the  country,  to  lliat  beautiful  lane  which  runs 
along  by  the  river-side  at  Chiswick.  He  had  been  there 
once  at  the  beginning  of  his  illness,  and  had  often  talked 
of  the  place  since.  It  haunted  him,  he  said,  with  its  over- 
hano-incf  trees,  and  the  river-view  breakinsr  in  between  them 

d?  CD  /  Cj 

• — its  tiny  wavelets  all  sparkling  in  the  sun.  He  knew  it 
would  look  just  the  same  this  calm,  bright  May  afternoon. 
So  accordingly  they  went  thither.  It  was  one  of  those 
spring  days  when  the  cai'th  seems  to  rest  from  her  joyful 
labor  of  budding  and  blossoming,  and  to  be  dreaming  of 
summer.  The  birds  in  the  trees — the  swans  in  the  water 
• — the  white  clouds  in  the  sky — were  alike  still ;  and  upon 
all  things  had  fallen  the  s})ell  of  a  blessed  silence — a  silence 
full  of  happiness,  hope,  and  love.  "  Happiness,  hope,  love" 
— what  words,  what  idle  words  they  would  sound,  unto 
the  two  who  were  passing  slowly  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  !  Oh  Earth,  beautiful,  cruel  mother,  how  canst  thou 
smile  with  a  face  so  fair  when  sorrow  or  death  is  on  thy 
children!  But  the  earth  answers  softly,  "I  smile  with  a 
calm  and  changeless  smile,  to  tell  my  frail  children  that  if 
in  me,  made  but  for  their  use,  is  such  ever  renewed  life  and 
joy,  shall  it  not  be  so  with  them?  And  even  while  they 
gaze  ujjon  me,  I  ])our  into  their  hearts  my  deep  peace  !" 
It  was  so  with  Philip  and  Leigh.  They  sat  silent,  hand  in 
hand,  and  looked  on  this  beautiful  scene:  from  both,  the 
bitterness  passed  away — the  bitteimess  of  life,  and  that  of 
death.     Which  was  the  greater? 

On  the  bridge  at  Kew,  Leigh  spoke.  He  begged  that 
the  carriage  might  rest  a  moment  to  let  him  look  at  tlie 
sunset,  which  \vas  very  lovely.  He  had  lifted  himself  up, 
and  the  large  brown  ej'cs  seemed  drinking  in  all  the  beau- 
ty that  was  in  land,  river,  and  sky — they  rested  longest 
there.  Then  they  turned  to  meet  Philip's  :  that  mute  gaze 
between  the  two  was  full  of  solemn  meaning, 

"Are  you  content?"  whispered  Philip. 


THE    OGILVIES.  275 

"Yes,  quite  :  now  let  us  go  home."  Leigh's  eyes  closed, 
and  his  voice  grew  fiiiiit. 

"You  seem  tired,"  said  the  otlier,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  a  little.  Take  me  home  soon,  will  you,  Philip  ?" 
His  head  drooped  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  heavily — 
so  heavily,  that  Philip  signed  to  the  coachman  to  drive  on 
at  his  utmost  speed.  Then  he  put  his  arni  round  the  boy, 
Avlio  lay  with  closed  eyes,  his  white  cheek  looking  gray  and 
sunken  in  the  purple  evening  light.  Once  Philij)  spoke, 
almost  trembling  lest  no  answer  should  come. 

"Are  you  quite  easy,  dear  Leigh?"  The  eyes  opened 
and  the  lips  parted  with  a  faint  smile.  "Yes,  thank  you, 
only  weary ;  I  can  hardly  keep  awake ;  but  I  must  till  I 
have  seen  my  mother."  And  still  the  dying  head  sank 
heavier  on  Philip's  shoulder,  and  the  hands  which  he  drew 
in  his  to  warm  them  Avere  already  growing  damp  and  rigid. 
He  sat  Avith  this  solemn  burden  in  his  arms,  and  tlie  car- 
riage drove  homeward  until  tliey  entered  the  Square.  The 
mother  stood  at  the  door. 

"  Take  her  away,  for  God's  sake — only  one  minute,"  whis- 
pered Pliilip  to  the  servant ;  but  she  had  sprung  already  to 
the  carriage. 

"  Leigh  ! — how  is  my  darling  Leigh  ?"  Her  voice  seem- 
ed to  pierce  even  through  the  shadows  of  another  world 
and  reacli  the  dying  boy  :  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled 
tenderly  upon  her. 

"Leigh  is  tired — almost  asleep,"  said  Philip,  hastily. 
"Take  the  cushion,  Mrs. Penny thorne,  and  I  will  carry  him 
in."  She  obeyed  without  a  word,  but  her  face  grew  dead- 
ly white,  and  her  hands  trembled.  When  the  boy  was 
placed,  as  he  seemed  to  wish,  in  his  mother's  arm-chair,  she 
came  and  knelt  before  him,  looking  into  his  face.  There 
was  a  shadow  there.  She  saw  it,  and  felt  that  the  time  was 
come  when  not  even  the  mother  could  stand  between  her 
child  and  Death,  l^hilip  thought  she  would  have  shrieked 
or  fainted,  but  she  did  neither.  She  only  gazed  into  the 
dim  eyes  with  a  wildly  beseeching  gaze. 

"  Mother — you  will  let  me  go  ?"  murmured  Leigh.     She 


276  THE    OGILVIES. 

drew  a  long  sigh,  fis  if  repressing  an  agony  so  terrible  that 
the  struggle  was  like  that  of  a  soul  parting,  and  then  said, 
"  Yes,  ray  darling  !" 

He  smiled — what  a  heaven  is  there  in  the  happy  smile 
of  the  dying  I  and  suftered  her  fond  ministering  hands — 
unwilling  even  yet  to  give  up  their  long  tendance — to  un- 
fasten the  cloak  and  put  the  wine  to  his  lips.  Then  she  sat 
down  beside  him,  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom,  and  awaited 
— oh  mighty  strength  of  a  mother's  love  ! — awaited,  tear- 
less and  calm,  tlie  passing  away  of  the  life  which  she  had 
given. 

"  He  is  quite  content — quite  happy — he  told  me  so,"  Phil- 
ip whispered  in  her  ear.  She  turned  round  one  moment 
with  a  startled  air :  "  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Hush  !"  And  she 
bent  down  again  over  her  cliild,  whose  faint  lips  seemed 
trving  to  frame,  scarcely  louder  than  a  sigh,  the  last  word, 
''Mother  r 

Then  there  fell  over  the  room  a  solemn  silence,  long  and 
deep,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  spirit  passed.  They  only 
knew  that  it  was  so  when,  as  the  moon  rose,  the  pale  spirit- 
ual light  fell  on  the  face  of  the  dead  boy,  still  pillowed  on 
the  mother's  breast.  She  turned  and  looked  upon  it  with- 
out a  ci-y  or  moan,  so  beautiful,  so  heavenly  was  it !  At 
that  moment,  had  they  put  to  her  the  question  of  old,  "Is 
it  well  with  the  child?"  she  would  have  answered  like  the 
Sliunammite,  '•  It  is  well !" 

"  God  help  her  !"  murmured  Philip  Wychnoi',  as  she  at 
last  suffered  him  to  take  the  beloved  form  from  her  arms, 
and  carry  it,  for  the  last  time,  to  "  Leigh's  room."  Ere  the 
young  man  left  the  chamber — once  the  scene  of  suffering 
and  pain,  now  of  holy  peace  and  death-slumber — he  looked 
long  and  earnestly  at  the  white,  still  image  before  him. 
Then  he  turned  away,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  dead 
likeness  of  what  poor  Leigh  had  been,  but  of  the  now  free, 
glorious,  rejoicing  soul. 

As  he  ])assed  down  stairs,  a  quick,  loud  knock  sounded 
at  the  door :  it  was  the  father's,  who  knew  not  that  he 
came  to  a  house  of  death. 


THE    OGILVIES.  277 

"  Cillie,  my  dear !  Eh,  what's  this  ?  Where's  Mrs.  Pen- 
nythorne?"  he  said,  in  his  sharpest  tones,  as  he  missed  the 
customary  meeting  at  the  door.  Philip  advanced,  and 
drew  the  old  man  into  the  parlor. 

"  Ah  !  Mr. Wychnor  :  quite  a  surprise  to  see  you,  but  de- 
lighted," he  began,  in  his  usual  manner.  "  Cillie  !  Where 
can  she  be  ?  Cillie,  my  dear  !"  Tlien,  startled  by  Philip's 
silence,  he  stopped. 

"Mrs.  Pennythorne  is  wp  stairs,""  the  young  man  said,  in 
a  low  and  hesitating  tone. 

"Eh?  oh,  of  course  she  is — with  Leigh." 

"  No  ;  Leigh  does  not  need  her  now.  Mr,  Pennythorne, 
your  son  is  dead  !"  But  the  next  moment  he  rej^ented  for 
thus  abruptly  communicating  the  tidings. 

The  old  man  caught  at  him  with  an  incredulous  gesture. 
"You — you  fancy  things — they  always  did — " 

Philip  looked  at  him  without  answering. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"     He  fell  into  a  chair,  speechless. 

Philip  had  shrunk  with  disgust  fi-om  the  stern,  unloving 
father  of  the  living,  who,  willfully  self-deceived,  had  led  his 
own  son  to  the  sacrifice,  and  looked  on  with  hard  and  cruel 
eyes;  but  no  human  heart  could  liave  turned  away  unpity- 
ing  from  the  agonized,  remorse-stricken  father  of  the  dead. 
For  many  minutes  did  the  old  man  sit  there  immovable. 
His  grief  was  so  terrible  in  its  pent-up,  stony  strength,  that 
Philip  dared  not  breathe  a  word  of  consolation.  At  last 
Mr.  Pennythorne  raised  his  head,  though  without  looking 
up,  and  murmured  the  name  of  his  wife. 

"Shall  I  call  her?" 


"  Yes." 


She  came  in  that  instant.  She  had  been  waiting  at  the 
door,  not  daring  to  approach  him  even  then.  But  now  she 
drew  near  to  her  husband — wonian-like,  wife-like.  She  laid 
his  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  clang  to  her — feeling  that  she,  in  all  her  weakness,  Avas 
yet  stronger  than  he. 

"  Come  Avith  me,  Pierce,"  she  whispered,  and  led  him 
away,  he  following  her  as  unresisting  as  a  cliild. 


278  THE    OGILVIES. 

What  passed  between  the  desolate  parents  none  of  the 
honsehold  knew.  They  remained  shut  up  together  in  their 
own  room  for  houi's — nay,  for  days — all  the  time  that  the 
dead  lay  in  the  little  chamber  above.  They  saw  no  one — 
at  least  he  did  not — though  Mrs.  Pennythorne  passed  in 
and  out  now  and  then,  to  give  any  needful  orders.  She 
did  all  with  a  newborn  firmness  and  energy  marvelous  to 
witness.  Philip  Wychnor,  Avho  once  or  twice  saw  her  for 
a  few  moments  when  she  descended  to  the  silent,  darkened 
parlor  below,  unconsciously  spoke  to  her  with  a  strange 
reverence  and  tenderness,  as  to  one  of  those  women  who 
are  God's  angels  upon  earth. 

In  a  few  days  the  burial-train  passed  from  the  door,  its 
stately  array — vain  mockery  ! — moving  down  the  Square 
in  the  bright  sunshine  ;  and  the  house  of  the  Pennythornes 
was  childless  evermore. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


The  tongue  was  intended  for  a  divine  organ,  but  the  devil  often  plays 
upon  it. — Jekemy  Taylor. 

IIow  much  have  cost  us  the  evils  that  liave  never  happened  I — Jeffer- 
son. 

.   Quiet  thyself  until  time  try  the  truth,  and  it  may  be  thy  fear 
will  prove  greater  than  thy  misfortune. — Southwell. 

"Are  you  at  liome  this  evening, Wychnor?'*  said  a  friend- 
ly voice,  when  Philip  sat  leaning  on  his  desk  in  a  thought- 
ful mood.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  at  the  door  the  face  of 
old  David  Drysdale. 

"  Certainly — to  you  always,  my  good  friend." 

"  But  I  mean,  is  there  any  need  for  that  amusing  fiction 
at  which  society  smilingly  connives?  Is  your  mind  really 
'  at  home'  as  well  as  your  body  ?  Are  you  quite  disen- 
gaged ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  done  my  work  for  to-day.  Pray  come  in, 
Mr.  Drysdale,  and  be  very  welcome." 

"  Have  you  more  welcomes  than  one  to  give  away  ?" 


THE    OGILVIES.  279 

pursued  Drysdale,  still  holding  the  door-handle;  "because 
I  am  not  alone." 

"Any  friend  of  yours  I  shall  be  happy  to  see,"  began 
Philip,  in  the  usual  conventional  form. 

"Nonsense!"  interrupted  the  old  man;  "I  thought  I 
had  cured  you  of  that  fashion  of  polite  speaking.  Besides, 
friends  are  about  as  plentiful  as  blackberries  in  London — 
I  may  say  that  with  great  truth,  you  know.  This  gentle- 
num  is  only  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  wishes  to  be- 
come one  of  yours." 

"And  a  little  more  than  that,  I  hope,  in  time,"  continued 
a  voice  behind.  It  was  so  sweetly  modulated — so  perfect- 
ly the  tone  and  accent  of  that  rare  personage,  a  gentleman 
— that  Philip  looked  eagerly  to  the  speaker,  who  added, 
"Shall  I  introduce  myself,  Mr. Wychnor,  as  my  friend  here 
seems  rather  to  disown  me  ?"  And  tliat  beautiful,  irresist- 
ible smile  broke  over  his  face,  making  one  forget  that  it 
was  not  strictly  handsome.  "  My  name  is  Lynedon — Paul 
Lynedon." 

Philip  had  guessed  it  before,  yet  he  could  not  suppress 
a  start.  Once  again  there  came  that  torturing  pain  ;  the 
blood  seemed  ice-bound  in  his  heart,  and  then  flowed  back 
again  in  fire.  He  must  be  calm.  He  was  so.  The  next 
moment  he  forced  himself  to  utter  acknowledgment  and 
Avelcome  to  the  man  Avhoni  Eleanor  loved. 

He  could  not  wonder  that  she  did  so,  now.  He  looked 
on  the  finely-moulded  form,  where  to  natural  grace  was 
added  all  that  case  of  movement  and  courtly  elegance 
which  polished  society  bestows ;  the  intellectual  head, 
which  had,  besides  character,  a  Aviiming  sweetness,  given 
by  its  only  perfect  feature,  a  mouth  and  chin  most  exqui- 
site in  shape  and  expression.  And  then  the  voice,  that  in- 
dex of  the  heart,  how  musical  it  was !  Philip's  eye  and 
ear  took  in  all  tliis ;  and  even  while  a  sense  of  self-abase- 
ment made  his  heart  die  within  him,  he  felt  <rlad — thank- 
lul.  She  had  not  cast  away  lier  love  upon  one  mean  and 
unworthy ;  her  choice  was  not  such  as  to  lower  her  in  his 
eyes — he  could  bear  any  thing  but  that ! 


280  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  I  have  been  Avishing  for  this  pleasure  some  time,  Mr. 
Wychnor,"  said  Paul,  with  that  mixture  of  frankness  and 
courtesy  which  formed  the  great  charm  of  his  manner; 
"you  seem  any  thing  but  unknown  to  me — not  merely 
from  your  writings,  Avhich  I  will  not  be  so  rude  as  to  dis- 
course upon  here — " 

"  Right,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  put  in  David  Drysdale  ;  "  it  is 
very  annoying  when  a  stranger  follows  up  his  introduction 
by  taking  your  soul  to  pieces  and  setting  it  up  before  your 
eyes,  until  in  most  instances  you  despise  it  yourself,  after 
it  has  been  handled  by  the  dirty  paws  of  a  fool.  Glad  to 
see  you  have  more  sense  and  tact  than  that,  sir." 

"Thank  you  !"  answered  Lynedon,  with  a  pleasant  smile 
and  bow,  as  he  turned  round  again  to  Philip.  "After  this, 
I  suppose  I  must  say  no  more  about  the  knowledge  I  have 
gained  of  you  from  your  Avritings — which  is,  nevertheless, 
the  time  way  of  becoming  acquainted  with  a  man.  In  the 
world  we  have  so  many  various  outward  selves." 

"  Humph  !  Ave  oughtn't  to  have,  though  !"  muttered 
Drysdale,  still  taking  the  answer  out  of  Philip's  mouth. 
He  did  not  know  how  thankful  the  young  man  was  for  the 
interposition. 

"Perhaps  so,"  continued  Lynedon,  j^olitely,  and  still 
turning  to  his  silent  host.  "  But  in  numerous  Avays,  too,  I 
have  licard  so  much  of  you — from  Mr.  Pennythorne,  and — 
in  several  other  quarters."  Philip  changed  color,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  hastily  about  the  Pennythornes. 

"  I  believe  I  was  invited  to  meet  you  at  Blank  Square, 
Mr.  Lynedon,  only  for  the  trouble  that  intervened." 

"  Ah  !  yes — some  death  in  the  family.  Have  they  recov- 
ered from  the  melancholy  event  ?"  said  Paul.  But,  though 
his  face  was  composed  to  a  decent  gravity,  the  tone  Avas 
not  quite  sincere. 

"  I  kncAV  they  Avould  kill  that  lad — the  youngest,  was  it 
not  ?  He  Avas  a  clever  felloAv.  I  dare  say  you  miss  him, 
Wychnor  ?"  observed  old  David. 

"  I  do,  indeed." 

"What  a  good-for-nothing  Avretch  and  idiot  the  father 


THE    OGILVIES.  281 

has  been  !     I  wish  I  liad  told  hira  so,"  cried  Drysdale,  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Hush  !  you  Avould  forgive  him  if  you  saw  him  now," 
Philip  gently  interposed;  and  then  he  spoke  more  about 
Leigh,  to  wljich  Drysdale  listened,  while  Paul  Lynedon  sat 
twirling  his  cane,  trying  to  assume  the  same  interest.  He 
did  not  do  it  so  well  as  usual,  thoxigh ;  for  Wychnor  de- 
tected his  abstraction,  and  apologized. 

"  You  Icne-w  nothing,  I  believe,  of  this  jioor  lost  fi'ieiid 
of  mine,  so  the  conversation  can  not  be  very  interesting  to 
you." 

"Indeed,  you  mistake,"  answered  the  other.  Lynedon 
would  not  have  been  considered  unfeeling  on  any  account. 
Besides,  he  had  taken  much  pains  to  collect  evidence  con- 
cerning the  character  of  the  young  author,  who  vras  likely 
to  be  useful  to  him  in  many  ways,  and  whose  supposed 
connection  with  that  little  episode  of  his  life  concerning 
Eleanor  Ogilvie  liad  entirely  slipped  from  his  easy  memo- 
ry. Determined  to  please,  he  was  now  exerting  in  every 
way  his  own  favorite  talent  of  being  "  all  things  to  all 
men."  Paul  often  thought  this  was  the  wisest  thing  his 
saintly  namesake  ever  said,  and  congratulated  himself 
rather  irreverently  on  the  presumed  resemblance  between 
them.  He  failed  there,  however,  since  Wychnor  came  to 
the  point  in  his  own  candid  way  by  saying  at  once, 

"I  conclude  the  i-eason  assigned  by  Mr.  Pennythornc  for 
our  meeting  at  his  house  will  further  explain  this  obliging 
visit  of  yours,  Mr.  Lynedon ;  and  as  the  matter  is  no  secret, 
I  believe,  let  me  tell  you  with  what  pleasure  I  would  have 
aided  j^our  views  had  I  been  able." 

"Aided  his  views!  So  he  had  some  views?  He  never 
told  me  any  thing  about  them  !"  said  Drysdale,  with  a  de- 
gree of  simplicity  that  made  Lynedon  internally  wish  him 
at  that  "  central  fire,"  the  investigation  of  which  formed 
the  old  philosopher's  present  hobby.  "  I  thought  you 
came  here  only  to  see  the  young  author,  of  whom  you  said 
you  had  heard  so  much  ?" 

"Certainly,  that  was  my  chief  inducement.     You  only 

N 


282  THE    OGILYIES. 

do  me  justice,  my  worthy  friend."  And  Paul  smiled,  still 
courteously  as  ever,  but  immediately  tried  to  free  himself 
from  a  rather  awkward  ])redicament  by  turning  the  con- 
versation to  his  plans  with  regard  to shire. 

"You  resided  there,  I  believe?  A  beautiful  county! 
There  is  none  in  England  where  I  should  so  much  wish  to 
make  my  home." 

Philip  bent  his  head,  and  his  fingers  played  convulsively 
with  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"So,"  said  Drysdale,  "in   plain  English,  you   Avant  to 

stand  for  the  borough  of  L .     Pennythorne  said  so. 

And  you  need  Wychnor's  knowledge  of  the  town.  Haven't 
you  any  friends  there  yourself?" 

«  No — yes."  And  Paul  looked  rather  confused,  being 
struck  with  the  sudden  possibility  that  Mr.  Wychnor 
might  have  been  informed  of  certain  old  follies,  the  very 
thought  of  which  brought  a  dye  of  shame  to  his  cheek. 
Philip  saw  it ;  it  seemed  to  his  eyes  the  consciousness  of 
happy  love,  and  his  very  soul  writhed  within  him. 

These  strangely  diverse  feelings  inclined  both  the  young 
men  to  the  same  course.  Each  instinctively  glided  from 
the  subject,  and  sought  refuge  in  safe  generalities.  The 
conversation  became  of  a  broken,  indifierent,  skirmishing 
description,  natural  to  two  men,  each  of  whom  is  bent  upon 
concealing  his  own  thoughts  and  discovering  those  of  his 
companion.  In  this  Paul  Lynedon  succeeded  best ;  he  was 
a  far  greater  adept  than  Philip  Wychnor.  He  talked  well 
— at  times  brilliantly — but  still,  even  to  the  most  earnest 
subjects  he  seemed  to  render  only  lip-service,  and  always 
appeared  to  consider  more  the  effect  of  his  words  than  the 
words  themselves.  He  and  David  Drysdale  almost  en- 
grossed the  conversation ;  but  once  or  twice,  in  some  of 
his  finest  sentences,  Paul  stopped,  and  wondered  why  the 
eyes  of  Philip  Wychnor  Avere  so  earnestly  fixed  upon  him. 
He  did  not  like  their  scrutiny  at  all. 

After  a  space,  Mr.  Lynedon,  growing  rather  wearied,  re- 
membered that  all  this  Avhile  his  cab  was  Avaiting  in  the 
street,  and  that  he  had  an  important  engagement—"  at  tho 


THE    OGILVIES.  283 

Regent's  Park" — which  was  the  first  place  he  happened  to 
think  of.  As  tlie  chance  word  passed  his  careless  lii>s, 
those  of  Philip  Wychnor  cpiivered  and  grew  pale.  Re- 
gent's Park  !     It  was  to  all  his  doubts  confirmation  strong. 

Paul  Lynedon's  adieu  was  full  of  the  most  friendly  cour- 
tesy. He  thanked  his  new  acquaintance  warmly  for  all  his 
kindness — "the  kindness  which  he  intended  to  show,"  as 
Drysdale  commented  rather  pointedly — and  said,  how  glad 
and  proud  he  should  be  to  number  among  his  friends  Mr. 
Philip  Wychnor.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  greater  part  of  what 
he  expressed,  for  no  one  ever  looked  at  the  young  author 
without  a  feeling  of  interest  and  regard. 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  come  and  see  me  soon,"  said  Paul, 
holding  out  his  hand.  For  the  moment  Philip  drew  back 
his  own,  but  the  act  was  unseen  in  the  half-darkened  room. 
With  a  violent  eftbrt  he  repressed  liis  feelings,  and  suffer- 
ed, rather  than  returned,  the  grasp  of  Lynedon.  When 
the  door  closed  on  his  visitor,  Philip  sighed  as  though  a 
mountain  had  been  removed  from  his  breast.  He  almost 
forgot  the  presence  of  Drysdale. 

At  length  the  latter  roused  himself  from  a  brown  study 
of  some  minutes'  duration  with — 

"R's  of  no  use,  I  can't  make  out  that  young  man  at 
all.     Can  you  ?" 

"  I  ?  Who  ?"  asked  Philij),  startled  out  of  his  own  silent 
thoughts. 

"Paul  Lynedon,  of  course.  I  should  like  to  anatomize 
him — that  is,  his  soul.  What  an  interesting  psychological 
study  it  would  make  !" 

"  Would  it  ?"  said  Philip,  absently. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  I  have  been  trying  the  experiment  my- 
self for  some  days.  Having  nearly  come  to  the  end  of  the 
abstract  sciences,  I  intend  to  begin  the  grand  science  of 
man,  and  my  first  subject  shall  be  Paul  Lynedon.  What 
do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

Philip  conquered  a  rising  spasm,  and  said  firmly,  "  He 
seems  an  intellectual  man,  and  is  doubtless  as  good  as  he 
looks," 


284  THE    OGILVIES. 


"  There's  the  things !  As  he  looks — as  he  seems  !  1  have 
never  yet  been  able  to  say  as  he  is.  He  puzzles  me,  just 
like  the  old  fable  of  the  chameleon.  View  him  at  different 
times,  and  he  appears  of  different  colors;  and  yet  you  can'i 
say  he  changes  his  skin — 'tis  the  same  animal  after  all. 
The  change  is  but  the  effect  of  the  lights  through  which 
he  passes.  To-night  he  seemed  quite  different  from  the  in- 
dividual whom  I  had  the  honor  of  meeting  yesterday  at 
Mrs.  Lancaster's.  Yet  I  don't  believe  Paul  Lynedon  is 
either  a  liar  or  a  hypocrite ;  it  could  not  be  so,  with  his 
head."  And  David,  who  was  a  phrenologist  as  well  as  a 
physiognomist,  indulged  his  young  friend  with  a  long  dis- 
course, which  we  shall  skip  over. 

"  The  question  lies  here,"  continued  Drysdale,  energetic- 
ally ;  "  is  he  a  true  man,  or  is  he  not  ?  I  can't  say  which 
at  present ;  only  I  think  this,  that  if  not  true  he  might 
have  been  made  so.  Some  people  go  swinging  unsteadily 
through  life  with  a  sort  of  pendulum  character,  and  yet 
they  are  composed  of  tolerably  sound  metal  after  all,  if  you 
can  but  get  hold  of  them.  Nobody,  I  think,  has  ever  taken 
this  firm  grasp  of  Paul  Lynedon  ;  I  mean,  no  one  has  ever 
had  influence  enough  over  him  to  cause  him  to  be  what  he 
now  only  tries  to  seem.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

Pliilip  had  listened  with  an  eagerness  so  intense  that  it 
became  positive  suffering.  He  did  not  believe  all  Drysdale 
said— he  would  not  believe  it.  The  Paul  Lynedon  of  the 
world  was  nothing  to  him  :  the  Paul  Lynedon  whom  Elea- 
nor had  chosen— whom  Elecmor  would  marry — he  com- 
pelled himself  to  think  these  very  words— was  the  most 
vital  interest  he  had  in  life.  To  doubt  of  this  man's  wor- 
thiness gave  him  an  acute  pang.  He  would  satisfy  him- 
self: steeling  his  heart  to  all  lower  feelings,  he  would  not 
shrink  from  Lynedon,  but  seek  to  know  him  thoroughly. 

"You  do  not  answer.  Do  you  agree  with  me?"  asked 
Drysdale,  when,  having  talked  himself  fairly  out  of  breath, 
he  leaned  back,  intently  contemplating  the  quaint  flicker- 
ing shadows  which  the  street-lamp  produced  on  the  wall 
of  the  yet  unlighted  room. 


THE    OGILVIES.  285 

"All  you  say  is  quite  true, I  doubt  not,"  answered  Phil- 
ip ;  "  still,  I  can  not  speak  positively  upon  any  evidence  but 
my  own  judgment  and  knowledge  of  the  man." 

"  Bravo,  Wychnor  !  Caution  very  large,  and  conscien- 
tiousness likewise.  I  always  said  so,"  cried  the  old  man, 
gently  tapping  his  own  head  with  his  forefinger  in  the  two 
spots  indicated  by  phrenologists  as  the  seats  of  those  qual- 
ities. "  But  the  evidence  you  allude  to  is  just  what  I  want 
you  to  get,  and  that— I  may  as  Avell  say  so  at  once,  being 
no  hand  at  hiding  any  thing — that  was  the  chief  reason 
why  I  brought  Lynedon  to  you,  even  more  than  his  own 
wish  of  knowing  you.  Perhaps  you  might  do  him  some 
good  if  you  tried." 

"I  wish  I  could,  God  knows  !"  cried  Philip,  earnestly— 
so  earnestly  that  Drysdale  first  looked  surprised,  and  then 
rose  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  pat  his  young  favorite's 
shoulder  in  a  manner  expressive  of  the  most  genuine  ap- 
proval, saying  affectionately, 

"  Well,  I  knew  you  were  a  kind-hearted,  generous  fellow 
as  ever  breathed.  Perhaps  I  never  should  have  thought 
it  worth  my  while  to  study  man  at  all  if  you  l)ad  not  at- 
tracted me  to  the  science.  Now,  about  Paul  Lynedon — 
are  you  listening  to  me  ?" 

"Yes,  my  good  friend,  with  all  my  heart." 

"Well,  do  you  see  that  lamp  shining  through  your  mus- 
lin curtain,  what  fantastic  shadows  it  casts?  I  can  trace 
a  different  shape  on  the  wall  every  time  I  come  here.  But 
if  there  were  no  lamp,  mind,  there  wouldn't  be  any  shadow 
at  all.  Now  the  lamp  may  stand  for  Paul  Lynedon's  soul; 
the  curtain,  always  assuming  different  folds,  for  his  outward 
character,  modified  by  temperament,  circumstance,  or  edu- 
cation. And  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  just  this — "  Suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word,  he  gently  and  slowly  drew  the 
curtain  aside,  and  the  broad,  full  light  illumined  the  whola 

wall. 

"I  will  do  so,  witli  heaven's  blessing!"  cried  Wyclnior. 
"  For  her  sake  !  for  her  sake  !"  he  murmured  in  his  heart, 
which  knew  not  how  needless  was  the  vow. 


286  THE    OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  XXXVin. 

He  was  justly  accounted  a  skillful  poisoner  who  destroyed  his  victims  hy 
bouquets  of  lovely  and  fragrant  iiowers.  The  art  has  not  been  lost — nay, 
it  is  practiced  every  day  by — the  world  ! — Bishop  Latimer. 

Take  heed — we  are  passionate !     Our  milk  of  love 

Doth  turn  to  wormwood,  and  that's  bitter  drinking ! 

If  that  ye  cast  us  to  the  winds — the  winds 

Will  give  us  their  unruly,  restless  nature; 

We  whirl,  and  whirl,  and  where  we  settle,  Fazio, 

But  He  who  ruletli  the  mad  winds  can  know. — Milman. 

It  will  perhaps  throw  some  light  on  the  peculiarities  of 
Lynedon's  character  when  we  relate  that  he  did  actually 
drive  to  tlie  Reg'ent's  Park  to  fuliiU  his  long-standing  and 
important  engagement  with — the  trees.  Whether  this  was 
done  as  a  conscience-salve,  or  as  a  safeguard  against  any 
chance  that  might  betray  to  Wychnor  tlie  insincerity  of  liis 
excuse,  is  needless  to  explain.  Probably  the  act  was  com- 
pounded of  both  motives. 

He  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  visit.  From  it  he 
had  expected  much,  having  some  time  previously  listened 
with  too  credulous  cars  to  Mr,  Pennythorne's  grandilo- 
quent description  of  the  immense  connection  ''his  excellent 
friend  Wychnor"  possessed  among  the  county  families  in 

shire.     Added  thereto, Paul  had  a  faint  recollection  of 

seeing  the  name  of  Wychnor  on  some  monument  or  other 

during  his  walk  througli  L Cathedral  with  Eleanor 

Ogilvie.  He  felt  vexed  that  his  own  foolish  sensitiveness 
about  that  ridiculous  aftair  should  have  made  him  change 
the   subject  without  trying  to  discover  from  Philip  his 

chances  as  M.P.  for  the  city  of  L .     For  he  had  quite 

determined  to  plunge  into  public  life,  as  the  only  resource 
against  the  ennui  that  was  creeping  over  him.  And,  being 
now  past  thirty,  lie  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  life 
was  one  long  sham,  and  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
love  in  it  at  all — or  friendshijD  either. 


THE    OGILVIES. 


287 


Nevertheless,  there  seemed  something  in  Wychnor  that 
he  liked ;  something  which  touched  a  cliord  in  his  better 
self.  There  never  was  a  false  character  yet  that  did  not 
feel  some  of  its  cumbrous  disguises  drop  from  it  on  coming 
into  contact  with  a  true  one.  That  night  he  was  more 
like  the  Paul  Lynedon  of  Summer  wood — the  Paul  Lyncdon 
whom  Eleanor  liked,  whom  Katharine  so  madly  worshiped 
— than  he  had  been  for  years. 

He  had  no  evening  engagement,  so  he  turned  into  the 
Opera.  Music  was  still  his  passion — still,  as  it  had  ever 
been,  the  spell  which  uidocked  all  his  purer  and  higher 
feelings.  Perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  in  his  present 
frame  of  mind  he  felt  attracted  wnthin  its  influence,  and 
half-congratulated  himself  that,  being  unlikely  to  meet  any 
one  he  knew,  he  could  sit  and  enjoy  "  Anna  Bolena"  to  the 
fullest  extent.  It  was  ratlier  a  disagreeable  surprise  when, 
as  he  passed  the  entrance-hall,  he  heard  himself  addressed 
by  name.  Turning  round,  he  saw  a  face  which,  although 
it  had  altered  considerably  from  the  fresh  charm  of  youth 
to  the  coarseness  of  mere  physical  beauty,  he  recognized 
at  once  as  Hugh  Ogiivie's. 

"Quite  glad  to  shake  hands  with  you  once  more,  Mr. 
Lynedon — really  delighted." 

"The  pleasure  is  mutual,"  answered  Paul,  cordially. 
"Mr.  Ogilvie,  how  well  you  are  looking  !" 

"  Of  course.  How  could  I  help  it !  But  won't  you  cone 
and  si)eak  to  Katharine  ?  ' 

"Is  slie  here — Miss  Ogilvie — J/?'s. Ogilvie, I  mean,"  cried 
Lynedon,  recollecting  himself,  and  looking  rather  awkward. 

"Ha!  ha!  Don't  apologize.  So  you  heard  of  our  mar- 
riage ?  Well,  let  me  introduce  j'ou  over  again  to  my  icife' 
— and  Hugh  looked  toward  a  lady  who  was  behind,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm,  not  of  her  husband,  but  of  some  other  gen- 
tleman— "  my  wife,  Mrs.  Ogilvie  !"  At  the  sound  of  her 
name  she  turned  slowly  round,  and  Paul  Lynedon  and 
Katharine  stood  face  to  face. 

He  was  stai-tled — almost  confused — at  least  as  much  so 
as  was  possible  for  such  a  finished  gentleman  to  be.    Could 


288  THE    OGILVIES, 

that  magnificent  creature  really  be  the  little  Katharine 
with  whom  he  had  flirted  years  ago  ?  "  Good  heavens  !" 
thought  he,  "  how  beautiful  she  is  !" 

Well  might  he  think  so,  even  tliough  tlie  features  were 
white  and  still  as  marble,  and  the  dark  eyes  seemed  cold, 
proud,  passionless.  Passionless  !  as  if  such  orbs  could  ever 
be  thus,  except  in  seeming — as  if  such  lips,  whose  delicate 
curves  were  made  to  tremble  with  every  breath  of  emo- 
tion, could  be  thus  firmly  compressed  into  apparent  calm- 
ness, except  by  the  strong  will  which  is  born  with  every 
strong  passion.  Katharine  icas  beautiful,  dazzlingly  beau- 
tiful ;  and  Lynedon  not  only  saw  it  with  his  eyes,  but  felt 
it  in  his  heart.  He  looked  at  her  as  he  had  never  yet  look- 
ed at  any  woman — with  a  sensation  less  of  admiration  than 
of  worship,  lie  could  have  knelt  down  before  her,  as  in 
his  days  of  youthful  enthusiasm  before  some  pictured  ideal 
in  Greek  sculpture  or  Italian  art.  AVhen  she  gave  him  her 
hand,  the  touch  of  the  ungloved  fingers  thrilled  him — per- 
haps because  they  were  cold  and  statue-like,  even  as  the 
foce.  He  quite  forgot  his  graceful  courtesies,  and  bowed 
without  a  single  compliment.  Only  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
hers,  with  one  look — the  look  of  old — implying  admiration 
— reverence — tenderness.  She  met  it.  Angel  of  mercy  ! 
how  mucli  a  woman  can  bear,  and  live  ! 

There  was  the  faintest  quivering  about  her  moutli,  and 
then  it  was  firmly  set,  and  the  proud  head  vras  lifted  high- 
er, haughtier  than  ever,  as  Katharine  Ogilvie  said,  "My 
husband  and  I  have  much  pleasure  in  this  unexpected  meet- 
ing, Mr.  Lynedon." 

Iler  husband!  Paul  had  quite  forgotten  the  fact  for  the 
moment.  That  glorious  woman  tlie  Avife  of  such  a  fellow 
as  Hugh !  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  it.  If  Katharine 
meant  by  this  distant,  proud  salutation  to  show  him  the 
change  that  had  come  between  them,  assuredly  she  should 
have  her  wish  fulfilled.  He  turned  awav,  colored  slight- 
iy,  and  bit  his  lip  with  vexation.  Already  the  foot  of 
the  beautiful  tyrant  was  approaching  him ;  soon  the  proud 
man  would  stooj)  his  neck  beneath  it,  and  become  in  turn 


THE    OGILVIES.  289 

the  slave.  He  struggled  a  little,  though,  and  said  in  his 
old  manner— the  Sir  Charles  Grandison  manner,  as  Katlia- 
rine  had  called  it  at  Summerwood — "Allow  me  to  con- 
gratulate two  old  friends  on  having  thus  added  to  their 
own  happiness.  That  such  is  the  case,  no  one  who  looks 
at  them  can  doubt." 

"You  really  think  so!  Well,  I  am  sure  we  do  seem 
very  happy  ;  don't  we,  Katharine  ?  And  so  we  are,  though 
it  is  long  past  the  honeymoon."  And  Hugh,  with  an  air 
half  shy,  half  pleased,  edged  nearer  to  his  wife,  so  as  to 
cast  into  shadow  the  individual  who  formed  her  escort — 
a  mere  "  walking  gentleman,"  whom  it  is  needless  to 
describe,  except  by  mentioning  his  name  —  Mr.  Whyte 
Browne.  He  politely  fell  back,  and  Katharine  took  her 
husband's  offered  arm.  But  she  leaned  on  it  with  an  air 
of  indifterence,  just  as  she  would  have  done  on  a  chair,  a 
table,  or  any  othef  article  of  furniture  belonging  to  her. 
Nevertheless,  Hug-h  looked  exceedinglv  gratified  and  proud. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  my  wife  ?  She  is  rather  altered 
from  the  little  girl  you  knew  at  Summerwood,  eh  ?"  he 
said,  in  an  audible  whisper  to  Paul,  who  answered  aloud, 

"  Indeed,  pleasant  as  was  my  past  recollection  of — of 
Miss  Ogilvie,  it  is  almost  obliterated  by  the  sight  of  Mrs, 
Ogilvie.  I  sliould  hardly  have  recognized  her."  Katha- 
rine bowed.  There  was  a  momentary  curl  of  the  lip  and 
contraction  of  the  brow,  and  then  the  face  recovered  its 
usual  expression.  Hugh  patted  her  hand,  but  a  few  mo- 
ments after  she  disengaged  it  on  some  trifling  excuse,  and 
stood  alone. 

Just  then  the  orchestra  witliin  began  the  overture,  and 
Hnijli  made  a  restless  movement. 

"  We  shall  be  late,  and  you  know,  Katharine,  you  always 
scold  me  then— that  is,  I  don't  mean  scolding,  but  only  a 
little  gentle  reproach,  which  we  married  men  understand 
well.  It's  rather  nice  than  otherwise,  though,  Lynedon— 
if  you  only  knew." 

Paul  crushed  his  heel  on  the  floor  and  made  no  answer. 
*'  We  will  pass  on,  Hugh,  if  you  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

N  2 


290  THE    OGILVIES. 

"Have  you  a  stall,  Mr,  Lynedon?  Otherwise  we  shall  be 
happy  to  find  room  for  you  in  our  box."  She  gave  the  in- 
vitation with  the  dignified  indifierence  of  one  who  was  ac- 
customed to  take  upon  herself  that  duty,  casting  only  a 
passing  glance  at  her  acquiescent  husband,  who  echoed, 

"  Oh  yes ;  we  shall  be  very  happy,  as  Katharine  saya 
Pray  come,  Lyuedoji." 

Lynedon  assented  with  evident  pleasure.  Then  first  over 
the  proud,  impassi\e  beauty  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  face  there 
came  a  flashing  smile  that  kindled  it  up  like  a  lightning 
glare.  In  this  smile  w^ere  triumph,  scorn,  and  revenge,  with 
a  delirious  joy  pervading  all.  It  lasted  a  moment,  and 
faded,  but  not  before  Lynedon  had  seen  it,  and  had  felt  for 
the  second  time  that  strange  sensation  of  being  cowed  and 
humbled  before  the  very  feet  of  this  woman. 

"Perhaps  you  will  take  care  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie  while  I  get 
a  book  of  the  opera,"  said  the  husbayd ;  and  once  more 
Paul  touched  the  hand  Avhich  had  before  sent  such  a  thrill 
through  his  frame.  Lying  on  his  arm,  it  looked  the  same 
childish  hand  which  he  had  many  a  time  t03'ed  with  and 
admired.  He  thought  of  this  now,  and  longed  to  do  tlie 
same  again  ;  but  on  it  sparkled  the  warning  symbol — the 
weddincc-ring.     It  Avas  too  late  ! 

Paul  Lynedon  was  a  man  of  quick  imjjulses.  Of  his  nu- 
merous small  affaires  de  ccew\  two  thirds  had  been  what 
he  would  probably  have  called  "love  at  first  sight" — as  if 
such  passing  enchainments  of  sense  or  fancy  were  not  des- 
ecrations of  that  holy  word.  Had  he  seen  Mrs.  Ogilvie  as 
a  stranger  at  opei'a  or  ball,  he  would  probably  have  con- 
ceived for  her  this  idle  passion  of  the  moment.  No  wonder, 
then,  that,  meeting  her  now,  in  her  zenith  of  beauty,  and  re- 
memberinof  the  old  times  when  his  vanitv  had  amused  it- 
self  Avith  her  girlish  admiration  of  him,  the  past  and  pies- 
ent  mingled  together,  and  created  a  strange  and  ncAV  inter- 
est in  Lynedon's  breast.  Before  an  hour  had  passed,  dm-- 
ing  Avhich  he  sat  beside  her  in  the  opera-box,  listening  with' 
her  to  the  rich  music,  which  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
bewildering  charm  of  the  moment,  Paul  began  to  drink  in 


THE    OGILVIES.  291 

her  every  look  and  tone,  and  feel  the  deepest  chords  of  his 
being  respond  to  her  fascinations. 

For  she  Avas  fascinating — she  wished  to  be  so.  in  a 
short  space  the  frigid  dignity  of  her  demeanor  melted 
away,  and  she  became  the  beautiful,  winning,  dazzling 
creature  who  for  some  months  had  been  the  very  cynosure 
Df  the  circle  wherein  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  her  set  convolved. 
She  talked,  now  with  the  brilliancy  of  a  vivid  imagination, 
now  Avith  the  softness  of  an  impassioned  nature.  Of  all 
her  conversation  Lynedon  had  the  complete  monopoly,  for 
Mr.Whyte  Browne  had  mysteriously  vanished,  and  Hugh 
Ogilvie  was  always  half  asleep  between  the  acts  of  an  opera 
— he  said  the  noise  and  light  made  him  drowsy.  He  was 
too  much  accustomed  to  see  his  wife  receive  constant  at- 
tentions and  engross  all  conversation  to  mind  it  in  the 
least.  Besides,  poor  Hugh's  simple,  unexacting,  content- 
ed love  was  never  crossed  by  the  shadow  of  jealousy.  He 
composed  himself  to  sleep  in  the  corner  with  an  apology 
about  the  long  ride  he  had  taken  that  morning,  and  left  his 
wife  and  Paul  to  anmse  each  other. 

There  is  no  spell  more  overwhelming  than  for  two  peo- 
ple to  whom  music  is  a  feeling,  a  passion,  to  sit  together 
listeninar  as  with  one  soul  to  the  same  delicious  strain:  the 
rapt  attention  —  the  heart-thrilling  pai;se — and  then  the 
melting  silence  that  comes  afterward,  when  eyes  meet  as 
if  saying  mutely,  "We  both  feel — therefore  we  are  one." 

This  strong  sympathy  existed  between  Katharine  and 
Paul.  When  the  act  ended,  he  turned  to  her,  and  saw, 
not  the  bewitching  creature  of  fashion,  whose  very  art  and 
coquetry  seemed  charming,  but  the  deep-souled  woman,  in 
Avhose  heaving  bosom  and  tremulous  lip  a  world  of  pas- 
sionate feeling  was  revealed.  It  struck  the  one  true  cliord 
in  Paul  Lynedon's  mercurial  nature,  and  his  tone  changed 
from  light  sparkling  wit  and  fulsome  compliment  to  car 
nestness  and  respect. 

"You  love  music  as  much  as  ever,  I  see.     You  have  not, 
jhanged  in  that,  tliough  in  every  thing  else." 

"  Have  I  changed  ? — ah  !  I  suppose  so — we  ail  do  !"  said 


292  THE    OGILVIES. 

Katharine;  and  a  smile — first  of  scorn,  then  of  well-as. 
sumed  sweetness — wreathed  itself  round  her  mouth.  But 
the  hand  which  hung  unseen  among  the  folds  of  her  dress 
was  clenched  so  convulsively  that  the  rose  it  held  fell 
crushed  to  pieces  on  the  floor. 

"Even  so,"  pursued  Lynedon,  with  a  curious  mixture  of 
affectation  and  real  feeling ;  "  but  allow  me  to  quote,  or 
rather  misquote,  the  words  of  our  dear  old  Shakspeare,  and 
say. 

Nothing  in  you  that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

Katharine  raised  her  graceful  head,  "  You  would  imply 
the  need  there  was  for  a  change,  and  you  are  right,  Mr. 
Lynedon ;  no  one  can  be  more  conscious  than  myself  of 
the  deficiencies  of  my  girlhood."  There  was  a  bitterness 
even  in  the  half-jesting  speech;  and  Paul  felt  the  edge  of 
his  elegant  compliment  blunted.  He  was  engaging  in  an 
attack  wherein  such  light  weapons  would  not  do.  Slight- 
ly confused,  ho  quitted  the  subject,  and  spoke  of  the  opera. 

"  I  never  heard  Grisi  sing  better  than  to-nio-ht.  She  is 
a  grand  creature,  but  still  she  is  not  my  ideal  of  Anne  Bo- 
leyn.  She  makes  a  stormy  tragedy-queen  of  the  meek, 
broken-spirited  woman,  Avhich  is  our  notion  of  Anne's  char- 
acter as  gathered  from  history." 

"  History  is  a  trusty  chronicler  and  unfolder  of  that  easy, 
well-explained  subject,  the  workings  of  a  woman's  heart," 
answered  Katharine,  with  an  irony  that  sat  on  her  so  grace- 
fully and  delicately  that  Paul  was  attracted  more  and 
more. 

"Your  meaning  is  just,  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  Perhaps  Grisi'a 
reading  is  the  true  one.  Still,  I  wonder  how  far  we  may 
unite  romance  with  history,  especially  as  concerning  Per- 
cy— Anne's  first  love  before  she  married  King  Henry. 
That  fact  argues  against  the  poet's  creed  of  female  con- 
stancy as  much  as  this  passionate  Semiramis-like  heroine 
is  opposed  to  the  received  doctrine  of  the  results  caused  by 
a  broken  heart — meek  patience  and  resignation,  and  all 


THE    OGILVIES.  295 

that  sort  of  thing."     Paul's  mocking  speech  was  silenced 
"by  the  flash  which  he  saw  gleam  in  Katharine's  eyes. 

"  That  is  the  way  you  men  speak  of  women !"  she  ci-ied. 
"  You  sting  them  into  misery — you  goad  them  on  to  evil 
— and  then  you  retort  on  them  with  a  jeer.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  alteration 
of  voice  and  countenance,  and  a  laugh  bo  light  and  musi- 
cal that  Paul  started  at  the  marvelous  change.  "  It  is  too 
bad  of  me  to  amuse  you  with  these  commonplace  revilings 
of  your  noble  sex — a  subject  on  which,  of  course,  no  fair 
lady  is  expected  to  speak  sincerely." 

Paul  acknowledged  the  implied  amende  with  a  look  of 
extreme  gratification.  "I  am  sure,  judging  by  the  laws 
of  attraction,  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  acquaintance  among  my  sex 
can  only  comprise  the  very  best  of  mankind." 

"I  receive  the  compliment,  only  returning  you  the  half 
of  it,  which  seems  ingeniously  meant  for  yourself,"  said 
Katharine,  gladly.  "And  you  must  acknowledge  that  my 
late  speech  was  an  excellent  imitation  ofl:'the  stage  of  that 
magnificent  Diva  Avho  is  now  entering  it.  So,  silence  !" 
She  laid  her  fair  jeweled  finger  on  her  mouth,  round  which 
the  most  dimpling  girlish  smiles  now  danced.  Could  those 
lips  be  the  same,  the  very  same,  which  had  looked  so  white 
an  hour  before?  Those  lips — the  very  lips  which,  the  last 
time  he  saw  her — Paul  Lynedon  had — He  could  not  look 
at  them  or  at  her.     He  felt  dizzy — burning — cold. 

Hugh  roused  himself  at  the  sound  of  the  orchestra,  and 
came  forward  sleepily,  stretching  his  long  limbs. 

"Do  you  find  this  opera  amusing,  Katharine?  because  I 
can't  say  I  do." 

"Possibly  not,"  said  the  Avife,  with  a  glance  between 
sarcasm  and  indifierence.  But  when  she  saw  Lynedon's 
eyes  rest  contemptuously  on  Hugh,  and  then  on  herself 
with  a  sort  of  insinuating  pride,  her  pity  rose.  "You  will 
acknowledge,  Mr.  Lynedon,  that  my  husband  is  very  kind 
in  accompanying — I  mean,  taking  me — to  the  opera  when- 
ever I  like ;  the  more  so  as,  not  understanding  music,  he 
does  not  derive  from  it  the  same  pleasure  as  myself" 


294  THE    OGILVIES, 

"  You're  a  good  girl,  Katharine,"  said  Hugli,  thankfully. 
"And  Mr.  Lynedon  won't  think  it  rude,  my  going  to  sleep. 
He  would  have  done  the  same  if  he  had  ridden  to  Summer- 
wood  and  back,  on  that  hard-mouthed  brute,  Brown  Bess." 

Paul's  satirical  smile  became  one  of  polite  attention  un- 
der the  gleam  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  compelling  eyes. 

"  Still  fond  of  horses  and  hunting,  Mr.  Ogilvie  ?" 

Hugh  gave  expression  to  a  melancholy  grimace.  "  1 
can't  hunt  now  Ave  live  in  town — and  Katharine  does  not 
like  it.  I  suppose  she's  right — she  always  is.  Hunting  is 
dangerous,  and  a  married  man  ought  to  take  care  of  him- 
self, you  know.     It's  all  her  love  for  me." 

"  Come,  you  gentlemen  can  talk  presently.  At  all 
events,  Hugh,  pray  be  silent  while  Mario  sings  Vivi  ^w." 

"Thanks  for  the  reproof,  ]\Irs. Ogilvie."  And  Lynedon 
bent  forward  attent.  Throughout  the  song  he  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  side  of  the  box  in  his  old  attitude,  with 
folded  arms,  and  fixed,  earnest  ey-es.  Behind  him,  Hugh 
lounged  on  a  chair  in  a  rather  awkward  fashion — his  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  his  chin  on  his  two  hands,  Avith  shut 
eyes  and  half  open  mouth.  The  tAvo — both  what  the  Avorld 
Avould  consider  fine-looking  men — Avere  types  of  distinct 
kinds  of  beauty — the  intellectual  and  the  animal,  Katha- 
rine looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  shuddered.  Heaven 
forgive  the  Avife  for  that  fearful  thrill  of  mingled  love  and 
hatred  Avhich  came  over  her!  She  could  have  shrieked 
aloud  Avith  despair — almost  with  terror — for  she  felt  the 
demon  entering  her  soul. 

Yet,  when  the  opera  ended,  and  Paul,  on  bidding  adieu, 
acquiesced  eagerly  in  Hugh's  invitation  to  dine  Avith  them 
the  next  Aveek,  Katharine  felt  a  glow  of  horrible  happiness. 
Had  a  river  of  fire  rolled  between  her  and  Paul  Lynedon, 
she  Avould  have  plunged  into  it — to  gain  once  more  the 
sight  of  his  face — the  sound  of  his  voice  1 


THE    OGILVIES.  295 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

The  aflfeetions,  like  the  conscience,  are  rather  to  be  led  than  drawn ; 
and  'tis  to  be  feared  that  they  who  marry  where  they  do  not  love,  will  love 
where  they  do  not  marry. — Fuller. 

Mk.  and  Mrs.  Hugh  Ogilvie,  of  Westbaiik  Villa,  Regent's 
Park,  were  very  dilierent  from  tlie  blithe  Katharine  and 
cousin  Hugh  of  Sumnierwood.  The  latter,  deprived  of 
that  physical  out-of-door  life  Avhich  comprised  his  whole 
existence,  was  growing  dull,  stout,  lazy.  The  heavy-look- 
ing man  who  lounged  wearily  over  his  late  breakfast,  the 
greater  part  of  which  became  the  perquisite  of  his  sole 
companions  in  the  meal — two  pet  dogs — was  a  melancholy 
contrast  to  the  lithe,  active  youth  who  used  to  come  bound- 
ing in  from  his  morning  ride  or  walk  to  the  breakfast-table 
at  Summerwood. 

"  Down,  Tiger,  down  !  You  must  creep  out  of  the  way 
when  your  mistress  comes;  she  don't  like  you  as  she  used 
to  do.  Heigho !  twelve  o'clock !  Katharhie  gets  later 
than  ever.  She  always  was  down  by  eleven  at  least," 
siffhed  Huo;h  to  himself  "This  comes  of  living  in  town. 
Thino-s  were  not  thus  at  Summerwood."  He  rang  for  his 
"wife's  maid,  and  sent  up  a  deprecating  message,  that  if 
Mrs.  Ogilvie  could  manage  it  Avithout  hurrying  herself,  he 
■would  very  much  like  to  see  her  before  he  took  his  morn- 
ing ride.  And  then,  in  despair,  he  patted  his  dogs  again, 
thinking  with  dolcfuL  regret  of  "  the  life  that  late  he  led." 

Katliarine  heard  the  humble  request  with  an  impatient 
gesture,  and  turned  her  fevered  cheek  again  on  the  pillow. 
It  was  indeed  a  long,  long  time  since  Hugh  had  been  bless- 
ed with  that  brightest  morning  sunshine  for  a  young  lius- 
band  —  his  Avife's  cheerful  smile  at  his  breakfast-board. 
She,  who  once  used  to  rise  with  the  lark,  now  indulged 
daily  in  that  dreamy  stupor,  half  sleeping,  half  waking,  by 
which,  in  our  troubled  and  restless  moods,  we  seek  to 


296  THE    OGILVIES. 

shorten  the  time  and  deaden  consciousness.  It  is  only  the 
happy  and  light-hearted  that  dare  to  face  the  morning 
hours.  Katharine  Ogilvie  shrank  from  them,  and  never 
rose  until  near  middaj'. 

Hugh  liad  mounted  Brown  Bess  in  despair,  and  cantered 
her  thrice  round  the  Park  before  his  wife  appeared.  On 
his  return,  he  found  Katharine  still  in  tlie  breakfast-room. 
Though  during  the  ride  he  had  in  his  vexation  resolved  to 
give  her  a  right  due  conjugal  lecture,  she  looked  so  beau- 
tiful in  her  white  morning  dress  that  he  quite  forgot  it,  and 
kissed  her  heartily  instead. 

She  received  his  welcome  coldly  enough.  "  There,  that 
will  do.  Why  will  you  bring  those  two  horrid  dogs, 
Hugh  ?     You  know  they  annoy  me.     Take  them  away." 

''That  I  will.  Here,  Tiger!  Leo!"  He  turned  them 
out  and  shut  the  door.  "I  never  let  them  in  here  except 
when  you  are  not  down  to  breakfast,  Katharine.  But  that 
is  often  enough,"  he  added,  disconsolately. 

"  I  can  not  help  it,  with  our  late  liours  and  visiting." 

"  Why  should  we  visit  so  mucli,  then  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't 
want  it.  Suppose  we  were  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  my 
darling  Katharine?" 

"Do  not  trouble  me,  Hugh;  I  told  you  when  I  married 
that  I  must  see  a  little  of  the  world.  You  want  nothing 
but  dogs  and  horses;  I  want  many  other  things — books, 
amusements,  society  —  and  I  can  not  be  happy  without 
them.  Don't  judge  me  by  yourself,  because  my  pleasures 
are  very  different  from  yours." 

"Ah!  yes,  I  know  they  arc,"  answered  Hugh,  w-ith  a 
sigh.  "Well,  you  were  always  far  cleverer  than  I;  it 
shall  be  as  you  like ;  only  if  you  would  let  me  see  a  little 
more  of  you — " 

"Yes,  yes.  Only  do  not  interrupt  me  now  that  I  have 
this  new  book  to  read ;  you  may  sit  down  and  look  at  the 
second  volume.  Not  that  it  would  interest  j'ou,  excejit 
that  the  author  is  your  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Wychnor." 
Hugh  seated  himself  in  obedient  silence,  and  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  book.     His  gentle  forbearance  made  no 


THE    OGILVIES.  297 

impression  on  his  wife.  A  woman  like  Katharine  had  ten 
times  ruther  be  trodden  under  foot  by  a  man  wlio  is  her 
superior,  than  worshiped  as  an  idol  by  one  beneath  herself 
How  fearful  is  the  danger  into  which  such  a  woman  plunges 
when  she  takes  for  the  guide  of  her  destiny— the  husband 
who  ought  to  be  reverenced  next  to  Heaven — one  who 
musi  perforce  be  to  her,  not  a  ruler,  but  a  slave  ! 

In  the  desperation  which  prompted  her  sudden  marriage, 
Katharine  had  never  thought  of  this.  She  considered  not 
the  daily  burden  of  a  loveless,  unequal  yoke — the  petty 
jars — tlie  continual  dragging  down  a  strong  mind  to  the 
weary  level  of  an  inferior  one.  Heaven  made  Avoman  from 
man,  not  man  from  woman.  A  great-hearted  and  good 
man  can  lift  his  wife  nearer  to  his  own  standard,  but  by 
no  power  on  earth  can  a  superior  woman  elevate  her  hus- 
band's weaker  mind.  She  must  sink  down  to  him;  all  the 
love  in  the  world  will  not  make  him  her  equal.  And  if 
love  be  not  there,  woe,  woe  unto  her,  for  it  is  a  fearful 
precipice  on  whicli  she  stands  ! 

Mrs.  Ogilvie's  pride  had  carried  her  successfully  through 
the  first  months  of  her  married  life.  Young,  beautiful,  and 
universally  admired  as  she  was,  no  one  liad  cast  upon  her 
the  shadow  of  blame.  Her  self-respect,  if  not  her  love,  had 
covered  Hugh's  inferiority  as  witli  a  shield,  which  made 
others  show  him  the  deference  that  the  wife  felt  not,  but 
had  the  grace  to  simulate.  For  herself,  she  received  the 
incense  which  universally  greeted  her  with  such  proud  in- 
difference, that  many  men,  whom  one  smile  would  have 
brought  unworthily  to  her  feet,  were  content  to  be  dri\'en 
in  cliains,  like  wild  tigers  harnessed  to  the  car  of  some 
Amazonian  queen.  She  let  them  see — ay,  and  the  world 
see  too — that  she  would  not  step  from  her  height  for  one 
moment,  so  as  to  become  their  prey.  Thus  it  was  with  the 
young  Avife,  until  her  path  was  again  crossed  by  the  shad- 
ow of  that  terrible  love  Avhich  had  made  her  life's  destiny 
—until  she  Avas  once  more  brought  Avithin  the  influence  of 
Paul  Lynedon. 

Against  this  influence  she  i  ow  struo:o-led.     She  felt  that 


298  THE    OGILVIES. 

already  a  cliange  had  come  over  lier,  breaking  the  dull 
round  of  her  aimless  existence,  to  escape  the  inanity  of 
which  she  had  plunged  into  the  excitement  of  perpetual 
society.  It  was  as  if  a  gleam  of  lurid  bi'iglitncss  had  dait- 
ed  across  her  sky:  the  world  itself  did  not  look  as  it  had 
done  one  little  day  before.  She  sought  not  to  analyze  her 
own  sensations :  she  only  knew  that  where  there  had  been 
darkness  there  now  was  light;  and  if  the  flash  were  a  blind- 
ing flame,  she  would  nave  lifted  her  eager  eyes  to  it  just 
the  same.  Her  heart  was  yet  pure  enough  to  be  fearless ; 
her  sense  of  a  wife's  duty  was  sufliciently  strong,  she  deem- 
ed, to  stand  in  tlie  place  of  a  wife's  love.  And  even  with 
regard  to  Paul  Lynedon  there  had  come  a  change.  She 
worshiped  no  longer  with  blind  adoration  the  all-perfect 
ideal  of  her  girlhood,  but  with  her  love's  reviving  fires 
mingled  a  darkening  cloud  of  vengeance.  She  desired  to 
make  him  feel  what  she  had  herself  felt — to  drive  him  mad 
for  her  sake,  and  then  fling  back  upon  him  the  dread  "too 
late." 

While,  with  tlie  book  before  her  eyes,  she  leaned  in  her 
cushioned  chair — reading,  not  the  beautiful  outpourings  of 
Philip  Wycluior's  genius,  but  the  fearful  writing  on  her  own 
heart — Katharine  heard  the  name  which  had  once  been  to 
her  a  glad,  all-pervading  music.  The  silent  tcte-d-ttte  of 
the  husband  and  wife  was  broken  by  Paul  Lynedon. 

Pie  had  last  night  ingeniously  convej^ed  Mi's.  Ogilvie's 
opera-glass  to  his  own  pocket,  and  now  came  to  express, 
Avith  liis  usual  indifterence  to  truth,  the  extreme  regret 
which  this  fact  would  have  caused  him,  except,  indeed,  for 
the  pleasure  of  returning  the  fair  owner  her  proj^erty. 

Lynedon  would  have  received  a  welcome,  though,  with- 
out this  excuse.  Hugh  was  always  glad  to  see  any  stray 
visitor  wlio  brightened  up  his  wife's  gloomy  brow.  It  is 
only  a  happy  home  that  needs  no  guests  within  its  walls. 
Paul  found  Mrs.  Ogilvie  as  beautiful  by  daylight  as  under 
the  glare  of  o})era  radiance.  He  liad  never  seen  any  one 
who  came  so  near  his  ideal  of  womanhood.  He  admired, 
too,  the  very  atmosphere  in  \\  hich  she  moved,  her  house 


THE    OGILVIES.  299 

being  filled  with  indications  of  its  mistress's  taste  in  music, 
art,  and  literature.  His  refined  perception  at  once  detect- 
ed these  mute  revealings  of  a  woman's  mind  and  character. 
Struck  more  and  more,  he  exerted  his  whole  powers  of 
pleasing,  and  the  unfailing  charm  extended  even  to  Hugh. 
The  trio  talked  pleasantly  for  some  time  on  general  and  in- 
dividual subjects,  and  Lynedon  heard  how  Sir  Robert  and 
Lady  Ogilvie  still  resided  at  Summerwood,  though  the  lat- 
ter was  in  rather  infirm  health. 

"  I  can  not  be  much  with  mamma  now — it  is  impossible," 
observed  Katharine ;  "  but  I  have  petitioned  my  sister-in- 
law  to  visit  her.     You  remember  Eleanor?" 

"  Of  course  he  does.  Why,  Lynedon,  I  used  to  think  you 
were  smitten  there." 

Paul  replied,  with  great  self-possession  and  indifterence, 
"I  feel  for  Miss  Eleanor  Ogilvie  the  same  resi:)ect  which  I 
have  for  any  lady  who  honors  me  with  her  acquaintance." 

As  he  spoke,  he  caught  the  searching  glance  of  Katha- 
rine, but  it  glided  from  his  face  in  a  moment.  Hugh  per- 
sisted in  liis  idle  jest.  "Well,  well,  I  suppose  I  was  mis- 
taken. And  so  you  have  got  no  further  than  acquaintance 
with  any  of  the  pretty  girls  you  have  met  ?  N^ever  expect 
me  to  take  in  that,  Lynedon  !  Why,  we  heard  you  were 
going  to  be  married  to  a  lady  abroad — only  nobody  knew 
her  name.  Who  said  so  ? — Mrs.  Lancaster,  was  it  not, 
Katharine  ?" 

"I  am  sorry  Mrs.  Lancaster  should  have  ascribed  to  me 
more  happiness  than  I  am  likely  to  attain.  I  have  never 
yet  seen  the  woman  whom  I  could  marry."  It  was  a  sax- 
ing^^coulcr'' — he  laid  it  to  his  conscience  as  an  atonement 
for  the  falsehood.  "Mrs.  Ogilvie,  allow  me!"  he  added, 
stooping  for  a  book  which,  in  hastily  reaching  it,  she  had 
let  fall.  He  staid  to  gather  up  some  dried  flowers  which 
were  scattered  from  the  open  leaves,  and  so  did  not  see 
Katharine's  face.  When  he  presented  the  book,  she  took 
it  with  a  steady  liand,  and  a  graceful,  smiling  acknowledg- 
ment. 

"  It  is  a  favorite  volume  of  mine,  though  I  have  only  late- 


300  THE    OGILVIES. 

ly  placed  it  among  the  list  of  the  books  I  love,"  she  said. 
"The  author  is  an  acquaintance  of  ours — a  Mr.Wychnor." 

"Phili})  Wychnor — an  excellent  fellow!  I  know  him, 
and  like  hiui  much.  How  glad  I  am  to  know  any  friend 
of  yours  !" 

"Indeed,  we  can't  exactly  call  him  a  friend.  We  can 
never  get  him  out  here,"  said  Hugh.  "  Katharine,  let  us 
try  him  once  more,  and  invite  him  for  Thursday.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Lynedon  might  persuade  hira.  I  wish  Eleanor  were 
here — she  would !  They  two  always  got  on  together  ex- 
cellently." 

"  Tell  Mr.Wychnor,"  said  Katharine,  "  that,  though  it  is 
impossible  for  Eleanor  to  be  with  us  on  Thursday,  I  still 
hope  he  will  come.  He  must  meet  her  here  some  day  the 
following  week.  But  stay — I  will  not  trouble  you  with  so 
long  a  message.  Shall  I  write — if,  as  you  are  going  to  see 
him,  you  would  kindly  deliver  my  note  '?" 

"  To  be  of  use  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie  in  any  thing  would  give 
me  only  too  much  happiness,"  was  his  reply,  spoken  for 
once  with  entire  undisguised  truth.  When,  a  few  minutes 
after,  Lynedon  passed  out  of  the  house,  he  drew  the  deli- 
cate missive  from  his  pocket,  and  looked  on  the  handwrit- 
ing and  seal  with  a  lingering,  loving  gaze.  He  felt  that  he 
could  have  traversed  all  London  to  fulfill  the  slisrhtcst  wish 
of  Katharine  Ogilvie. 

The  whole  way  to  Philij)  Wychnor's  abode  her  voice 
rang  in  his  ear — her  face  flitted  before  him.  He  contrived, 
however,  to  banish  the  haunting  vision  a  little,  so  as  to  en- 
ter into  conversation,  and  eflace  the  evident  confusion 
which  his  unexpected  entrance  caused.  Paul  attributed 
this  to  the  sudden  disturbance  he  had  occasioned  in  Wych- 
nor's  literary  pursuits,  and  thanked  his  stars  that  he  was 
not  an  author.  To  shorten  his  visit,  he  quickly  delivered 
the  letter. 

"  You  will  go,  of  course  ?  They  are  a  charming  family 
— the  Ogilvies.  I  feel  quite  proud  to  call  them  all  friends, 
as  I  am  sure  you  must,  since  you,  I  believe,  share  the  sama 
privilege  ?" 


THE    OGILVIES.  301 

After  this  remark,  Paul  looked  up  for  an  answer,  and  re- 
ceived Philip's  half-suppressed  "  Yes  !" 

"Mrs.  Ogilvie  is  so  anxious  to  know  more  of  you,  and 
you  can  not  refuse  her.  Indeed,  Mr.  Wychnor,  you  see 
how  desirous  we  all  are  for  your  friendship." 

'"''We  all  are  !"  Philip  shrank  visibly — the  careless  word 
seemed  to  him  to  imply  so  much.  But  there  was  a  cordial 
frankness  in  Lynedon's  manner  that  he  could  not  resist. 
He  remembered,  too,  the  conversation  with  David  Drys- 
dale,  and  his  own  promise  concerning  Paul. 

"  I  shall  not  see  Aer,"  he  reasoned  within  himself;  "  no,  I 
could  not  bear  that.  But  I  will  not  draw  back  from  this 
man :  I  will  prove  him — I  will  read  his  heart,  and  be  satis- 
fied Avhether  he  is  Avorthy  of  her  or  not.  Mr.  Lynedon,"  he 
said  aloud,  "  it  has  of  late  been  rarely  my  custom  to  visit 
— I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  ;  but,  since  Mr,  and 
Mrs,  Ogilvie  desire  it,  I  will  come  on  Thursday." 

"  That  is  right !  it  will  give  every  one  so  much  pleasure!" 
And  again  Philip's  shrinking  fingers  were  compressed  in 
the  warm  grasp  of  his  supposed  rival.  They  talked  on  for 
a  few  minutes  longer  on  other  subjects,  and  then  Paul  quit- 
ted him. 

Philip  Wychnor  sank  back  on  his  chair  with  a  heavy 
Bigh.  "  It  is  my  doom — I  can  not  escape.  Heaven  grant 
me  strength  to  bear  it  all !" 


CHAPTEPv  XL. 

How  often — ah !  how  often — between  the  desh-e  of  the  heart  anil  its  ful- 
fillment lies  only  the  briefest  space  of  time  or  distance,  and  vet  the  desire 
remains  forever  unfulfilled !     It  is  so  near  that  we  can  touch  it  with  the 
hand,  and  yet  so  far  that  the  eye  can  not  behold  it. — Longfellow, 
Oh  for  a  horse  with  wings  ! — Siiakspeare. 

"  Four  years — fovtr  years  !" 

Eleanor  murmured  these  words  to  herself  in  that  half 
mplancholy  dreaminess  which  invariably  comes  over  one 
of  thoughtful  nature  when  standing,  no  matter  how  hope- 
fully, on  the  brink  of  what  seems  a  crisis  in  life's  history. 


302  TPIE    OGILVIES. 

The  present  time  apjieared  a  crisis  in  hers.  She  was  going 
to  London — going  Avhcre  she  was  sure  to  meet  Philip, 
Soon  the  long-affianced  lovers  would  look  on  each  other's 
face.  After  such  a  season  of  absence,  and  a  brief  period 
of  silence,  almost  estrangement,  how  would  they  meet? 
Eleanor  had  no  doubt,  no  dread,  in  her  faithful  heart ;  but 
still  she  was  thoughtful,  and  when  all  the  preparations  for 
the  morrow's  journey  were  completed,  she  sat  down  by  the 
window  of  her  little  chamber,  and  watched  the  twilight 
shadows  deepen  on  the  gray  cathedral,  saying  to  herself 
over  and  over  again,  "  Four  years — four  years  !" 

It  was,  indeed,  thus  long  since  she  had  seen  Philip.  Four 
years  !  It  seems  a  short  time  to  maturer  age,  but  to  youth 
it  is  an  eternity.  Nineteen  and  twenty-three  ?  What  a 
gulf  often  lies  between  the  two  periods  of  existence.  The 
child's  heart — many  a  young  girl  is  at  nineteen  still  a  child 
— is  taken  away,  and  in  its  stead  has  come  the  woman's, 
which  must  beat  on,  on,  loved  or  loveless,  enjoying  or  en- 
during life,  until  life's  end !  It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  have 
traveled  so  far  on  the  universal  road  that  we  begin  to  look 
not  only  forward,  but  backward — to  say,  even  jestingly, 
"  7rAe?i  I  was  a  child.''''  And  to  some  it  chances  that,  in 
every  space  thus  journeyed  over,  uprises  a  spectre,  which 
confronts  them  with  its  ghastly  face  whenever  they  turn 
to  review  the  past;  nay,  even  if  they  set  their  faces  brave- 
ly and  j^atiently  to  the  future,  they  hear  continually  behind 
them  its  haunting  footsteps,  mocking  each  onward  tread 
of  theirs,  and  knelling  into  their  hearts  the  eternal  "  no 
more." 

On  Eleanor's  peaceful  life  this  bitterness  had  not  passed. 
To  her,  the  "  four  years"  on  which  she  now  dreamily  mused 
had  brought  little  outward  change.  They  had  flowed  on 
in  a  quiet,  unbroken  routine  of  duties,  jDatiently  fulfilled, 
yet  somewhat  monotonous.  It  often  seemed  hardly  a 
month  since  she  and  Philip  had  sat  together  that  sweet 
spring  moi'ning  beneath  the  beautiful  double  cherry-tree 
on  which  she  now  looked.  Yet,  since  then,  three  times  she 
had  watched  its  budding,  leafing,  flowering — had  watched 


THE    OGILVIES.  303 

it  alone  r  And  the  clematis  which  that  same  moming,  in 
the  playfulness  of  happy,  newly-betrothed  lovers,  they  to- 
gether planted  in  memory  of  the  day,  had  now  climbed 
even  to  her  window,  and  flung  therein  a  cloud  of  perfume. 
It  came  over  her  senses  wooingly,  like  the  memory  of  those 
dear  olden  times,  and  of  Philip's  precious  love.  She  lean- 
ed her  head  against  the  casement,  and  drank  in  the  fra 
grance,  until  her  eyes  filled  with  happy  tears. 

"  I  shall  see  him  !  I  shall  see  him  ! — soon,  ah  !  soon  !"  she 
whispered,  while  her  fancy  conjured  up  his  likeness  as  she 
used  to  watch  him,  lying  on  the  grass  dreamily  in  summer 
noons,  with  the  light  falling  on  his  fair  hair  and  his  deli- 
cate, almost  boyish  cheek.  Picturing  him  thus,  Eleanor 
half  smiled  to  herself,  remembering  that  Philip  was  no 
boy  now — that  four  years  must  have  given  him  quite  the 
port  and  appearance  of  a  man.  He  would  be,  ay,  almost 
eight-and-twenty  now,  and  he  had  wrestled  with  the  world, 
and  gained  therein  fame  and  success.  Ah  !  he  would  not 
look  like  the  Philip  whose  boyish  grace  had  been  her  ideal 
of  beauty  for  so  long.  He  must  be  changed  in  that,  at 
least.  She  was  almost  sorry,  yet  proud  to  think  how  great 
lie  had  become.     And  she — 

Eleanor  did  not  often  think  of  herself,  especially  her  out- 
ward self;  but  she  did  now.  Yet  it  was  still  with  reference 
to  him.  Was  she  worthy  of  him  ?  In  her  heart — her  faith- 
ful, loving  heart  —  she  knew  she  was.  But  in  external 
things?  When  she  thought  of  Philip — living  in  London, 
gay,  courted,  moving  among  the  talented  and  beautiful — 
and  herself,  a  simple  country  girl,  who  had  spent  this  long 
time  in  complete  retirement  and  patient  attendance  on 
querulous  age,  Eleanor  was  struck  by  a  passing  feeling  of 
anxiety.  She  was  no  heroine,  but  a  very  Avoman.  She 
rose  up  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror.  It  reflected 
a  face,  not  beautiful,  but  full  of  a  sweetness  more  winning 
even  than  beauty.  Perhaps  the  cheek  was  less  j^each-like 
and  had  a  straighter  curve,  and  on  the  mouth,  instead  of 
girlhood's  dimples,  sat  a  meek,  calm  smile.  The  eyes — ah ! 
there  Time  had  given  rather  than  taken  away ;  he  had  left 

O 


304  THE    OGILVIES. 

still  the  true  heart  shining  from  them,  and  had  added  there- 
to the  deep,  thoughtful  soul  of  matured  womanhood. 

Something  of  this  their  owner  herself  saw,  for  she  smiled 
once  more,  murmuring,  "He  used  to  love  my  eyes — I  think 
he  will  love  them  still !  And  he  will  find  only  too  soon 
how  dearly  they  love  him,"  she  added,  as  her  heart,  nigh 
oppressed  with  the  weight  of  its  joy  and  tenderness,  re- 
lieved itself  with  what  sounded  almost  like  a  sigh. 

"I  will  not  sit  thinking  any  more,  but  try  and  find  some- 
thing to  do,"  said  Eleanor,  as  she  roused  herself  from  her 
dreamy  mood,  and  began  to  arrange  with  feminine  care 
her  "properties,"  already  packed  up  for  the  gay  visit 
Avhich  was  to  break  her  monotonous  life.  But  even  in 
this  occupation  the  one  thought  followed  her.  She  was 
always  neat  and  tasteful  in  her  dress — as  a  woman  should 
be;  but  now  she  felt  conscious  of  having  selected  her  ward- 
robe with  more  than  usual  care.  The  colors  Philip  had 
liked — the  style  of  attire  that  once  pleased  his  fancy — ever 
a  poet's  fancy,  graceful  and  ideal — all  were  remembered. 
It  was  a  trifling,  perhaps  an  idle  thought,  but  it  was  nat- 
ural and  womanly ;  showing,  too,  how  Love  binds  up  into 
itself  all  life's  aims  and  purposes,  great  and  small ;  hov/  it 
can  dare  the  world's  battle,  and  sit  smiling  at  the  hearth — 
is  at  once  a  crowned  monarch,  a  mighty  hero,  and  a  little 
playful  child. 

When  Eleanor's  hands  had  resolutely  busied  themselves 
for  some  minutes,  they  again  drooped  listlessly  on  her  lap 
as  she  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  once  more  became  ab- 
sorbed in  pleasant  musings.  She  Avas  roused  by  a  sum- 
mons from  Davis.  Mrs.  Breynton  "  wished  to  know  wheth- 
er jMiss  Ogilvie  intended  to  give  her  any  of  her  company 
this  evening,  which  she  might  well  do,  seeing  it  was  the 
last." 

"  You  must  excuse  the  message.  Miss  Eleanor,"  said  the 
old  servant;  "but  I  don't  wonder  at  my  lady's  being  cross; 
she  will  miss  you  so  much — indeed,  we  all  shall.  But  I  am 
glad  you  are  going ;  'tis  hard  for  a  young  creature  to  be 
kept  moping  here.     I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant  visit, 


THE    OGILVIES.  305 

Miss  Ogilvie,  though  the  house  will  be  dull  without  your 
pretty  face — God  bless  it !" 

Eleanor  thanked  her,  almost  tearfully,  for  her  heart  was 
very  full. 

"And  you'll  come  back  as  blithe  and  merry  as" — the  old 
woman  jjaused  for  a  simile — "as  my  canary  there,  which 
poor  Master  Phi —  Oh  !  Miss  Ogilvie,  perhaps  in  that 
great  world  of  London  you  may  hear  something  of  some- 
body I  daren't  speak  about,  though  goodness  knows  I've 
never  forgotten  him — never!"  And  the  unfailing  apron 
was  lifted  to  poor  Davis's  eyes. 

Eleanor  could  not  speak ;  but,  as  she  passed  hastily  out 
of  the  room,  she  pressed  warmly  the  hard  brown  hand  of 
the  faithful,  affectionate  creature,  Avho  remembered  Philip 
still. 

Mrs.  Breynton  sat  in  her  arm-chair,  knitting  vehemently 
at  the  eternal  quilt,  which  was  now  promoted  to  be  nearly 
the  sole  occupation  of  its  aged  projector,  whose  dimmed 
eyes  and  trembling  fingers  grew  daily  less  active.  To- 
night they  seemed  incompetent  even  to  the  simple  woi'k 
to  which  they  applied  themselves  with  such  indignant  en- 
ergy, for  the  perpetually  unroved  square  seemed  a  very 
Penelope's  web.  At  length,  when  the  old  lady  had  knit- 
ted away  her  wrath  and  her  cotton,  she  looked  up,  and 
saw  Eleanor  sitting  near  her. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  intended  to  stay  up  stairs  all  tlie 
evening.  Pray,  how  long  is  it  since  you  troubled  yourself 
to  come  down  ?" 

"I  have  been  here  some  minutes,"  was  the  gentle  an- 
swer. 

"  Why  did  you  not  speak,  then  ?" 

"  I  did  once,  but  you  w^ere  too  busy  to  hear  me,  I  think. 
Now  shall  I  take  your  work  away  and  ring  for  tea  ?"  Mrs. 
Breynton  assented,  muttered  something  about  the  chill  au- 
tumn evening,  and  turned  her  chair  opposite  the  fire,  so 
that  her  face  Avas  completely  hid.  Eleanor  went  about 
the  light  household  duty — now  wholly  hers— with  an  agi- 
tated heart,  for  there  came  upon  her  the  thought,  natural 


306  THK    OGILTIES. 

to  the  eve  of  a  journey — and  such  a  journey — How  would 
be  the  return  ?  When  she  again  sat  at  Mrs.  Breynton's 
board,  would  it  be  in  peace  and  hope,  or —  She  drove 
away  the  fear:  she  could  not — would  not  tliink  of  it.  She 
would  still  believe  in  Philip,  and  in  Philip's  aunt. 

"  Shall  I  move  your  chair  hither,  or  bring  your  tea  to  the 
work-table  ?"  she  said,  trying  to  steady  her  voice  to  its 
Tisual  tone  of  affectionate  attention. 

"  Bring  it  here.  I  may  as  well  get  used  to  taking  tea 
alone,"  muttered  Mrs.  Breynton.  But  when  Eleanor  came 
beside  her,  to  sliow  for  the  last  time  the  simple  act  of  care- 
ful tendance  to  which  she  had  been  so  long  accustomed, 
the  harsh  voice  softened. 

"Ah!  I  shall  have  no  one  to  make  tea  for  me  to-mor- 
row night !  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  what  I  shall  do  without 
you,  Eleanor." 

And,  instead  of  taking  the  offered  cup,  she  gazed  wist- 
fully in  the  sweet  young  face  that  was  now  becoming 
troubled  and  tearful. 

"Dear  friend — dear  Mrs.  Breynton,  shall  I  stay?" 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you ;  of  course  your 
brother  wants  you,  and  you  yourself  must  be  delighted  to 
leave  this  dull  place." 

"  Nay ;  was  it  not  by  your  own  consent — your  own  de- 
sire ?" 

"I  desired  notliing.  What  made  you  think  so?"  cried 
Mrs.  Breynton,  angrilj^  There  was,  indeed,  a  strange  and 
painful  conflict  in  her  mind.  Fearful  lest  allho])e  of  win- 
ning back  her  erring  yet  cherished  nephew  should  be  lost, 
and  pierced  deeper  and  deeper  with  a  feeling  almost  akin 
to  remorse,  she  had  determined  to  risk  all  chance  of  dis- 
covery, and  let  the  lovers  meet.  Yet  when  the  time  came 
she  trembled.  Besides,  she  did  not  like  to  part  even  for  a 
season  with  the  gentle  creature  who  had  become  almost 
necessary  to  her  comfort ;  age  can  ill  bear  any  change  or 
any  separation.  But  for  all  that,  Eleanor  must  go  ;  it  was 
the  only  chance  of  bringing  back  him  for  whom  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton's pride  and  love  alike  yearned  continually.     Her  feel- 


THE    OGILVIES.  307 

ings  changed  hourly  —  momently  —  with  an  impetuosity 
that  even  her  yet  energetic  mind  could  not  wholly  conceal. 

"Eleanor,"  she  continued, "  do  not  mistake  me:  you  go 
by  your  own  choice,  and  your  friends'  Avish  ;  I  have  no 
right  to  interfere  with  either.     But  you  will  come  back  ?" 

"  I  will,  indeed.     And  oh  !  Mrs.  Breynton,  if — " 

Eleanor  sank  down  beside  her.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  plea  of  that  earnest  face — the  one  plea  which  her  whole 
life  of  duty  and  tenderness  silently  urged.  But  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton turned  hastily  and  coldly  away. 

"Rise,  and  go  to  your  place,  my  dear;  we  will  talk  no 
more  now."  And  for  an  hour  afterw^ard,  by  a  violent  con- 
trol Avhich  show^ed  how  strong  still  was  her  lingering  pride, 
the  dean's  widow  maintained  her  usual  indifference,  talked 
of  common  things,  and  made  no  allusion  to  the  journey  or 
the  parting.  At  last  she  took  out  her  watch,  and  desired 
Eleanor,  as  usual,  to  call  the  servants  in  to  prayers. 

The  girl  obeyed,  placed  the  cushion  and  the  open  book, 
as  she  had  done  every  night  for  so  long,  and  knelt  down, 
with  her  eyes  overflowing. 

Mrs.  Breynton  read  the  accustomed  form  in  her  accus- 
tomed tone.  The  servants  gone,  she  and  Eleanor  stood 
alone. 

"  My  dear,  is  every  thing  prepared  for  your  journey  to- 
morrow '?" 

Eleanor  assented  mutely;  she  could  not  speak. 

"You  will  take  as  escort  either  Davis  or  James,  which 
you  choose ;  either  can  return  next  day." 

"  Oh  no,  you  are  too  kind,"  said  Eleanor,  who  knew  what 
it  cost  the  precise  old  lady  to  part,  for  ever  so  short  a  time, 
with  either  of  these  her  long-trusted  domestics;  "indeed, 
I  can  travel  very  well  alone." 

"But  I  do  not  choose  my  child,  my  adopted  daughter'''' 
-—she  laid  a  faint  emphasis  on  tlie  word — "to  do  any  such 
thing.     The  matter  is  decided." 

Pride  struggled  witli  tenderness  in  her  manner,  and  still 
she  stood  irresolute.  The  old  butler  entered  with  lighted 
candles. 


308  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  James,"  said  his  mistress,  "  you  will  accompany  Miss 
Ogilvie  to  lier  journey's  end,  with  all  care  and  attention, 
as  though  she  were  my  own  child."  And  then,  finding 
the  last  minute  had  indeed  come,  Mrs.  Brevnton  took  her 
candle. 

"  My  dear  Eleanor,  as  you  depart  so  early,  we  had  bet- 
ter say  good-by  to-night."  She  held  out  her  hand,  but 
Eleanor  fell  on  her  neck,  weeping  bitterly.  Mrs.  Breynton 
began  to  tremble. 

"  Hush  !  my  dear,  you  must  not  try  me  so ;  I  am  old  ;  I 
can  not  bear  agitation."  She  sank  on  a  chair,  struggled  a 
moment,  and  then  stretched  out  her  hands.  "  Eleanor — • 
poor  Isabel's  Eleanor — forgive  me.  Come  !"  And  for  the 
second  time  in  her  life  the  childless  widow  folded  to  her 
bosom  the  young  creature  from  whom,  in  her  old  age,  she 
had  learned,  and  Avas  learning  more  and  more,  the  blessed 
lesson  to  love.  In  a  few  moments  the  emotion  j^assed,  and 
she  rose  up. 

"  Now,  ray  child,  I  must  go.  Give  me  your  arm  to  my 
room  door,  for  I  am  weak  and  exhausted." 

"And  you  Avill  not  let  me  see  you  in  the  morning?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  no — better  thus !  You  will  come  back 
at  the  two  months'  end.  You  promise  ?"  And  her  search- 
ing ej^es  brought  the  quick  color  into  Eleanor's  cheek. 

"  I  promise !"  She  might  have  said  more,  but  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton moved  hastily  on  to  her  chamber.  At  the  door  she 
turned  round,  kissed  the  girl's  cheek,  and  bade  God  bless 
her. 

Then  from  Eleanor's  full  heart  burst  the  cry,  "Bless  him 
— even  him  also  !  Oh,  dearest  friend,  let  me  take  with  me 
a  blessing  for  Philip!"  At  the  name  Mrs.Breynton's  coun- 
tenance became  stone  once  more.  All  her  wrath,  all  her 
sternness,  all  her  pride,  were  gathered  up  in  one  word — 

"  No  !"  She  closed  the  door,  and  Eleanor  saw  her  not 
again.  But  for  hours  she  heard  the  feeble,  aged  footstep 
pacing  the  next  chamber,  and  even  in  her  heaviness  the 
girl  was  not  witliout  liope. 

Eleanor  awoke  at  dawn,  startled  iVom  her  restless  sleep 


THE    OGILVIES.  309 

Dy  one  of  those  fantastic  dreams  tliat  will  sometimes  come 
ou  the  eve  of  any  great  joy,  in  wliich  we  rehearse  the  long- 
expected  bliss,  and  find  that,  by  the  intervention  of  some 
strange  "cloud  of  dole,"  it  had  been  changed  to  pain. 
Philip's  betrothed  dreamed  of  that  meeting,  the  hope  of 
which,  waking,  had  filled  her  whole  soul  with  happiness 
almost  too  great  to  bear.  She  saw  him,  but  his  face  was 
cold — changed.  He  turned  away  without  even  a  clasp  of 
the  hand.  Then  the  dream  became  wild  aiid  unconnected 
— though  it  was  always  Philip— only  Philip.  She  was 
again  with  him,  and  the  ground  seemed  suddenly  cloven, 
while  a  tempestuous  river  rushed  howling  between  them ; 
it  grew  into  a  mighty  sea,  above  which  she  saw  him  stand- 
ing on  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  his  averted  face  lifted  to  the  sky, 
his  deaf  ear  heeding  not  the  despairing  cry  which  she  sent 
up  from  the  midst  of  the  ingulfing  waters. 

With  that  cry  she  awoke,  to  find — with  oh  !  what  thank- 
ful joy  ! — that  these  were  but  dreams.  Suddenly,  like  a 
burst  of  sunshine,  the  joyful  truth  broke  upon  her,  that  this 
day,  this  very  day,  she  would  journey  toward  Philip — a 
brief  space,  perchance  a  few  hours,  and  they  would  meet! 
Once  more  bui'st  from  her  inmost  heart  the  rapturous  mur- 
mur, "  I  shall  see  him !  I  shall  see  him !"  And  Eleanor 
turned  her  face  on  the  pillow,  weeping  tears  of  happiness. 
Oh,  the  thrill  of  a  remembered  joy  that  comes  with  wak- 
ing— how  wild,  how  deep  it  is  !  Only  second  to  that  keen- 
est pang,  the  first  waking  consciousness  of  misery. 

Soon  Eleanor  rose,  saying  to  herself  the  old  adage — she 
had  an  innocent  superstition  lurking  in  the  depths  of  her 
simple  heart — "  Morning  tears  bring  evening  smiles ;"  and 
she  thought,  if  the  tears  were  so  sweet,  what  must  be  the 
bliss  of  her  smiles !  So  she  made  ready  for  her  departure 
with  a  cheerful  spirit,  over  which  neither  the  painful  dream, 
nor  the  still  more  painful  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Breynton's 
last  Avords,  could  throw  more  than  a  passing  cloud. 

As  though  to  confirm  this  joy,  Davis  knocked  at  her 
chamber-door  with  an  aftectionate  farewell  message  from 
Mrs.  Breynton,  and  a  letter.     It  was  from  Sir  Robert  Ogil- 


310  THE    OGILVIES. 

vie,  begging  his  niece  to  hasten  her  journey,  so  as  to  accom- 
pany him  that  night  to  a  party  at  his  daughter's  house. 
"It  was  Katharine's  especial  wish,"  he  said;  and  Katha- 
rine's wish  had  long  become  law  Avith  father,  mother,  and 
husband  too.  "Eleanor  could  easily  reach  Summerwood 
by  the  afternoon,"  her  uncle  continued, "  thanks  to  the  rail- 
way— the  only  useful  innovation  that  the  hateful  march-of- 
intellect  Radicals  had  ever  made." 

Eleanor  read  Katharine's  inclosed  letter  of  warm  invita- 
tion. It  bore  the  following  postscript :  "  I  especially  wish 
you  to  come,  because  you  will  be  like  to  meet  one  who  will 
doubtless  be  as  much  pleased  to  meet  you — your  old  ac- 
quaintance, Mr.  Wychnor." 

What  a  world  of  joy  lay  in  that  idly-scribbled  line ! 

"To-night!  to-night!"  cried  Eleanor,  as,  bewildered — 
almost  stunned — by  the  certainty  of  the  coming  bliss,  she 
sank  on  the  bed  and  hid  her  face.  Thence,  gliding  to  her 
knees,  her  first  impulse  was  one,  the  sacredness  of  which 
received  no  taint  from  its  total  simplicity — a  thanksgiving 
lifted  to  Him  who  gave  Eve  unto  Adam,  and  Sarah  unto 
Abraham,  for  thus  bringing  her  face  to  face  with  one  whom 
— as  sacredly  as  if  the  marriage  words  had  already  been 
spoken — Eleanor  regarded  as  her  husband. 

Once  again,  ere  the  last  moment  of  departure  came,  Elea- 
nor entered  her  little  chamber,  shut  the  door,  and  prayed 
that  she  might  return  thither  in  safety  and  in  joy ;  and 
then,  all  bitterness  reconciled,  pass  from  this  home  of  pa- 
tient duty  into  another  far  dearer,  and  thus  faithfully  ful- 
fill woman's  highest,  holiest  destiny,  that  of  a  loving  and 
devoted  wife.  And  as  she  arose,  the  sun  burst  through 
the  gray  morning  clouds,  and  the  cathedral  chimes  rang 
out  joyfully,  yet  with  a  sweet  solemnity.  Their  sound  fol- 
lowed her  like  a  parting  blessing. 

And  so, borne  cheerily  on  the  "horse  with  wings,"  Avhich 
to  her  was  as  welcome  and  as  full  of  poetry  as  that  dream- 
creation  oflmogen's  desire,  Eleanor  went  to  Summerwood. 


THE    OGILVIES.  311 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

I  saw  it — 
Twas  no  foul  vision — with  iinljlinded  eyes. 
I  saw  it !  his  fond  hands  were  wreathed  in  hers. 

.     .     .     He  gazed  upon  her  face, 
Even  with  those  fatal  eyes  no  woman  looks  at. 

.     .      .     Mayst  thou 
Ne'er  know  the  racking  anguish  of  this  hour — 
The  desolation  of  this  heart ! — Milman. 

The  circle  assembled  in  Hugh  Ogilvie's  drawing-room 
was  the  very  perfection  of  a  social  dinner-part}^  Every 
body  knew  every  body,  or  nearly  so.  There  was  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster flitting  about  as  usual  in  her  gossamer  drapery,  and 
her  shadow  of  a  husband  still  hovering  beside  her — the  re- 
flection of  her  glory.  There  was  David  Drysdale  pursuing 
his  new  science — the  study  of  humanity  in  general,  with 
especial  reference  to  Paul  Lynedon,  whose  movements  he 
watched  with  Argus  eyes.  The  object  of  his  scrutiny,  how- 
ever, was  unconscious  of  the  fact.  Paul  moved  hither  and 
thither,  casting  in  all  directions  his  gracefid  and  brilliant 
talk,bi;t  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  found  himself  quite  in- 
difterent  as  to  the  sensation  he  created  among  the  general 
company.  They  seemed  to  him  like  a  moving  phantasma- 
goria of  shadows  ;  among  them  he  saw  but  one  form,  heard 
but  one  voice,  and  these  were  Katharine  Ogilvie's. 

She  knew  this  too :  though  he  did  not  keep  constantly 
at  her  side,  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her  wherever  she  moved. 
She  was  conscious  that  not  one  word  from  her  lips,  not  one 
silken  stirring  of  her  robe,  escaped  the  notice  of  Paul  Lyne- 
don. The  thought  made  her  eyes  glitter  with  triumph. 
She  felt  that  she  had  only  to  stretch  forth  her  arm,  to  lay 
her  delicate  hand  on  the  lion's  mane,  and,  Ariadne-like,  she 
would  ride  victoriously  on  the  beautiful  Terror  which  had 
once  trampled  on  her  peace.     Exultingly  she  displayed  the 

02 


312  THE    OGILVIES. 

power  which  had  gained  lier  universal  homage — the  lofty 
and  careless  defiance  tliat  only  subdued  the  more. 

Yet,  could  any  eyes  have  pierced  through  that  outward 
illusion,  they  might  ]>ercliance  have  seen  behind  the  queen- 
like, radiant  woman,  the  shadow  of  an  angel — the  angel  of 
Katharine's  lost  youth — mourning  for  her  future.  And 
ever  and  anon,  piercing  through  the  clouds  that  were  fast 
darkening  over  the  wife's  soul,  came  a  low  whisper,  warn- 
ing her  that  even  an  erring  marriage- vow  becomes  sacred 
forever;  and  that  to  break  it,  though  only  in  thought,  is  a 
sin  which  oceans  of  penitent  tears  can  scarcely  Avash  away. 

To  none  of  her  guests  Avas  Mrs.  Ogilvie  more  gracefully 
courteous  than  to  tlie  silent,  reserved  Philip  Wychnor. 
During  the  half  hour  that  elapsed  before  dinner,  her  magic 
influence  melted  away  many  of  those  frosty  coverings  in 
wliich  he  unconsciously  enveloped  himself  in  society.  A 
man  instinctively  lays  his  soul  open  before  a  woman  much 
more  than  before  one  of  his  own  sex ;  and,  had  Katharine 
been  less  absorbed  in  the  struggles  of  her  own  heart,  slie 
might  have  read  much  of  Wychnor's,  even  without  his 
knowledge. 

At  length  tliere  mingled  in  her  winning  speech  the  name 
— so  loved,  yet  so  dreaded  by  her  hearer. 

"  I  hope,  after  all,  that  you  Avill  meet  your  old  friend 
Eleanor  to-night.  My  father  told  me  she  was  expected 
at  Summerwood  to-day,  so  I  entreated  him  to  bring  her 
hither." 

Philip  made  no  answer :  despite  his  iron  will,  he  felt  sti- 
fling—gasping for  air. 

"  You  are  not  well — sit  down,"  observed  the  young  host- 
ess, kindly ;  "  I  ought  not  to  have  kept  you  standing  talk- 
ing so  long." 

He  sank  on  a  chair,  muttering  something  about  "having 
been  overworked  of  late." 

"  I  feared  so ;  indeed,  you  must  take  care  of  yourself,  Mr. 
Wychnor ;  I  will  not  say  for  the  Avorld's  sake,  but  for  that 
of  your  many  friends,  among  whicli  I  liope  to  be  numbered 
one  day ;  and  when  Eleanor  comes — " 


THE    OGILVIES.  313 

He  turned  away,  and  his  eyes  encountered  Lynedon's. 
The  latter  was  ai)2)arently  listening  eagerly  to  each  word 
that  fell  from  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  lips.  Philip  fancied  the  spell 
lay  in  the  sound  of  the  beloved  name,  when  it  was  only  in 
the  voice  that  uttered  it.  But  he  had  not  time  to  collect 
his  thoughts,  when  the  drawing-room  door  opened,  and 
Hugh  hurst  in  with  somewhat  of  the  old  cheerfulness 
brightening  his  heavy  features. 

"  Katharine,  make  haste :  they're  both  come,  your  father 
and  our  dear  Nelly.     I'm  so  glad  !" 

"And  so  am  I,"  answered  Katharine,  for  once  echoing 
her  husband  ;  and,  making  her  own  graceful  excuses  to  her 
guests,  she  glided  from  the  room.  , 

As  she  did  so,  Philip  looked  up  with  a  wild,  bewildered 
air,  and  again  caught  the  eager  gaze  of  PaulLynedon  fixed 
on  the  closing  door.  He  started  from  his  seat,  conscious 
only  of  a  vague  desire  to  fly — ariy  where,  on  any  pretext, 
so  as  to  escape  the  torture  of  the  scene.  But  Drysdale  in- 
tercepted him. 

"Eh!  my  young  friend,  what's  tliis?  Where  are  you 
going  ?" 

"  I— I  can  not  tell—" 

"  Nothing  the  matter — not  ill  ?"  And,  following  the  ol<l 
man's  affectionate,  anxious  look,  came  the  curious  and  sur- 
prised glance  of  Lynedon.  Beneath  it  Philip's  agony  sank 
into  a  deadly  calm. 

Once  again  he  said  in  his  heart, "  It  is  my  doom.  I  can 
not  fly  ;  I  must  endure."  He  had  just  strength  to  creep  to 
a  corner  of  the  room,  apart  from  all.  Tliere  he  sat  down, 
and  waited  in  patient,  dull  despair  for  the  approach  of  her 
whom  he  still  loved  dearer  than  his  life. 

There  were  voices  without  the  door.  Lynedon  sprang 
to  open  it.  It  was  in  answer  to  his  greeting  that  Philii>'s 
half  maddened  ear  distinguished  the  first  tone  of  that  be- 
loved voice,  unheard  for  years  except  in  dreams.  Soft  it 
was,  and  sweet  as  ever,  and  tremulous  with  gladness. 

Gladness  !  when  she  knew  that  he,  once  loved,  and  then 
so  cruelly  forsaken,  was  in  her  presence,  and  heard  all ! 


314  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  Come,  let  her  hand  go,  Lynedon,"  said  Hugh's  voice. 
"  Here  are  other  friends,  Nelly." 

She  advanced,  pale  but  smiling — no  set  smile  of  forced 
courtesy,  but  one  which  betokened  a  happy  heart ;  her  own, 
her  very  own  smile,  shining  in  eyes  and  lips,  and  making 
her  whole  lace  beautiful. 

Philip  saw  it,  and  then  a  cold  mist  seemed  to  enwrap 
him,  through  which  he  beheld  men  and  women,  and  mov- 
ing lights,  indistinct  and  vague.  Yet  still  he  sat,  leaning 
forward,  as  though  attentive  to  the  last  dull  saying  of  his 
dull  neighbor,  Mr.  Lancaster. 

And  Eleanor !  Oh !  if  he  had  known  that  in  all  the  room 
she  saw  only  one  face — his  ! — that  she  passed  Lynedon  and 
the  rest,  hardly  conscious  of  their  greetings — that  through 
them  all  her  whole  soul  flew  to  him — him  only — in  a  trans- 
port of  rejoicing  that  they  had  met  at  last ! 

Yet,  when  she  stood  before  him — when  she  held  out  her 
hand,  she  could  not  speak  one  word.  She  dared  not  even 
lift  her  eyes,  lest  she  should  betray  the  joy  which  was  al- 
most too  great  to  conceal.  It  blanched  her  smiling  lips, 
made  her  frame  tremble,  and  her  voice  grow  measured  and 
cold. 

And  thus  they  met,  in  the  midst  of  strangers,  with  one 
passing  clasp  of  the  hand,  one  formal  greeting ;  and  then 
either  turned  away,  to  hide  from  the  world  and  from  each 
other  at  once  the  agony  and  the  gladness. 

For  in  Eleanor's  heart  the  gladness  lingered  still.  A 
momentary  pang  she  had  felt  that  they  should  meet  thus 
coldly,  even  in  outward  show,  but  still  she  doubted  him 
not.  Philip  vmst  be  right — must  be  true.  A  few  minutes 
more,  and  he  would  surely  find  some  opportunity  to  steal 
to  her  side — to  give  her  one  word — one  smile,  which  might 
show  that  they  were  still  to  one  another  as  they  had  been 
for  years — nay,  all  their  lives  !  So  she  glided  from  the 
group  around  Katliarine  to  calm  her  beating  heart,  and 
gather  strength  even  to  bear  her  joy. 

She  sat  dow^n,  choosing  a  place  whei-e  she  could  see  him 
who  was  to  her  all  in  the  room — all  in  the  world !     She 


THE    OGILVIES.  315 

watched  him  continually,  talking  or  in  repose.  He  was 
greatly  altered — much  older ;  the  face  harsher  in  its  lines ; 
but  he  was  her  Philip  still.  Gradually,  amid  all  the  change, 
the  former  likeness  grew,  and  these  four  years  of  hitter 
separation  seemed  melted  into  nothing.  She  saw  again 
the  playmate  of  her  childhood — the  lover  of  her  youth — 
her  chosen  husband.  She  waited  tremblingly  for  him  to 
come  to  her,  to  say  only  in  one  look  that  he  remembered 
the  sweet  past. 

But  he  never  came  !  She  saw  him  move,  talking  to  one 
g\jest  and  then  another.  At  last  they  all  left  him,  and  he 
stood  alone.  He  would  sui-ely  seek  her  now  ?  No,  he  did 
not  even  turn  his  eyes,  but  sank  wearily  into  a  chair,  and 
above  the  murmur  of  heedless  voices  there  came  to  Elea- 
nor his  heavy  sigh. 

She  started  :  one  moment  more,  and  she  would  have  cast 
aside  all  maidenly  pride,  and  crept  nearer  to  him,  only  to 
look  in  his  face,  and  say  "  Philip  !"  But  Mrs.  Lancaster 
approached  him,  and  she  heard  him  answering  some  idle 
compliments  Avith  the  calmness  learnt — in  the  heartless 
world,  she  thought,  knowing  not  that  love's  agony  gives 
to  its  martyrs  a  strength  almost  superhuman,  first  to  en- 
dure, and,  then  enduring,  to  conceal. 

She  saw  him  speak  and  smile — ay,  smile :  an  icy  fear 
crept  over  her.  It  seemed  the  shadow  of  that  terrible  "no 
more"  which  sometimes  yawns  between  the  present  and 
past.  Let  us  pray  rather  that  our  throbbing  hearts  may 
grow  cold  in  the  tomb  than  that  we  should  live  to  feel 
them  freezing  slowly  in  our  bosoms,  and  be  taught  by  their 
altered  beatings  to  say  calmly,  "TAe  time  has  been.'''' 

It  so  chanced  that  Paul  Lynedon  led  Eleanor  down  to 
dinner.  He  did  it  merely  because  she  happened  to  stand 
near  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  The  latter  had  turned  from  him  and 
taken  the  arm  of  David  Drysdale,  Avith  whom  she  was  al- 
ready on  the  friendliest  of  terms.  Katharine  was  always 
so  especially  charming  in  her  manner  to  old  people. 

These  formed  the  group  at  the  head  of  the  table ;  Philip 
sat  far  apart,  having  placed  himself  where  he  could  not  see 


316  THE    OGILVIES. 

the  face  of  either  Paul  or  Eleanor,  But  their  tones  came 
to  him  amid  the  dazzling,  bewildering  mist  of  light  and 
sound ;  every  word,  especially  the  rare  utterances  of  Elea- 
nor's low  voice,  piercing  distinct  and  clear  through  all. 

Pliilip's  neighbor  was  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who,  now  feeling 
herself  sinking  from  that  meridian  altitude  which,  as  the 
central  sun  of  a  petty  literary  sphere,  she  had  long  main- 
tained, caught  at  every  cliance  of  ingratiating  herself  with 
any  rising  author.  She  mounted  her  high  horse  of  senti- 
ment and  feeling,  and  cantered  it  gently  on  through  a  long 
criticism  of  AVychnor's  last  work.  Then,  finding  the  chase 
was  vain,  for  that  he  only  answered  in  pohte  monosylia 
bles,  she  tried  another  and  less  lofty  style  of  conversation 
• — remarks  and  tittle-tattle  concerning  her  friends,  absent 
and  present.  She  was  especially  led  to  this  by  the  morti- 
fication of  seeing  her  former  ^j>ro^e£/($,  Paul  Lynedon,  so  en- 
tirely escaped  from  under  her  wing. 

"  How  quiet  Lynedon  has  grown !"  she  said,  sharply.  "  I 
never  saw  such  a  change.  Why,  he  used  to  be  quite  a  lion 
in  society.  How  silent  he  sits  between  Mrs.  Ogilvie  and 
her  sister !  By-the-by,  perhaps  that  may  account  for  liis 
dullness  to-night." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  answered  Philip,  absentl)^ 
"  Ah !  the  aifair  Avas  before  your  time,  Mr.  Wychnor," 
said  the  lady,  mysteriously ;  "  but  some  years  ago,  at  Sum- 
merwood,  I  really  imagined  it  would  have  been  a  match 
between  Miss  Eleanor  Ogilvie  and  Paul  Lynedon  there. 
How  he  admired  her  singing,  and  herself  too  !  Not  that 
I  ever  could  see  much  in  either;  but  love  is  blind,  you 
know." 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,  allow  me  to  take  wine  with  you,"  in- 
terrupted Paul,  who  from  the  other  end  of  the  table  liad 
caught  the  sound  of  liis  own  name  united  with  Eleanor's, 
and  was  in  mortal  fear  lest  Mrs.  Lancaster's  tenacious  mem- 
ory should  be  recalling  her  former  hadhiage  on  the  subject- 
Philip  sat  silent.  His  cup  of  agony  seemed  ovej-flow- 
ing.  But,  ere  his  lips  approached  the  brim,  an  angel  came 
by  and  touched  it,  changing  the  gall  into  a  healing  draught. 


THE    OGILVIES.  3 1  7 

On  tlie  young  man's  agonized  ear  came  the  mention  of  one 
name — tlie  name  of  the  dead.  What  matter  though  it  was 
uttered  by  the  frivolous  tongue  of  Mrs.  Lancaster,  to  whom 
Leigh  Penny thorne  and  his  sufferings  were  merely  a  vehicle 
for  sentimental  pity !  Even  while  she  pronounced  the  name, 
surely  some  heavenly  ministrant  caught  up  the  sound,  and 
caused  it  to  fall  like  balm  on  Philip  Wychnor's  heart.  The 
casual  words  carried  his  thoughts  away  from  all  life's  tor- 
tures to  the  holy  peace  of  death.  They  brought  back  to 
him  the  dark,  still  room,  where,  holding  the  boy's  damp 
hand,  he  had  talked  with  him,  solemnly,  joyfully,  of  the 
glorious  after-world.  Then  came  floating  across  his  mem- 
ory the  calm  river  sunset — the  last  look  at  the  moon-il- 
lumined, peaceful  face,  on  Avhose  dead  lips  yet  lingered  the 
smile  of  the  parted  soul.  Even  now,  amid  this  torturing 
scene,  the  remembrance  lifted  Philip's  heart  from  its  earth- 
ly pains  toward  the  blessed  eternity  where  all  these  should 
be  counted  but  as  a  drop  in  the  balance. 

If  the  thorns  of  life  pierce  keenest  into  the  poet's  soul, 
heaven  and  heaven's  angels  are  neai'er  to  him  than  to  the 
worldly  man.  Philip  Wychnor  grew  calmer,  and  his 
thoughts  rose  upward,  where,  far  above  both  grief  and 
joy,  amid  the  glories  of  the  Ideal  and  the  blessedness  of 
the  Divine,  a  great  and  pure  mind  sits  serene.  Thither, 
when  they  have  endured  a  while,  does  the  All-compassion- 
ate, even  in  life,  lift  the  souls  of  these  His  children,  and 
give  them  to  stand,  Moses-like,  on  the  lonely  height  of  this 
calm  Pisgah.  Far  below  lies  the  wilderness  through  which 
their  weary  feet  have  journeyed.  But  God  turns  their  faces 
from  the  past,  and  they  behold  no  more  the  desert,  but  the 
Canaan. 

There  was  a  fluttering  of  silken  dresses  as  the  hostess 
and  her  fair  companions  glided  away.  Philip  did  not  look 
up,  or  he  might  liave  caught  fixed  on  his  face  a  gaze  so  full 
of  mournful,  anxious  tenderness,  that  it  would  have  pierced 
through  the  thickest  clouds  of  jealous  doubt  and  susj^icion. 
He  felt  that  Eleanor  passed  him  by,  though  his  eyes  were 
lifted  no  hio-her  than  the  skirt  of  her  robe.     But  on  her 


318  THE    OGILVIES, 

left  hand,  which  lay  like  a  snowflako  among  the  black 
folds,  he  saw  a  ring,  his  own  gift — his  only  one,  for  love 
like  theirs  needed  no  outward  token.  She  had  promised 
on  her  betrothal-eve  that  it  should  never  be  taken  oif  save 
for  the  holier  symbol  of  marriage.  IIow  could  she — how 
dared  she  wear  it  now  !  One  gleam  of  light  shot  almost 
blindingly  through  Philip's  darkness  as  he  beheld;  the 
deep  calm  fled  from  his  heart,  and  it  was  again  racked 
witli  suspense.  He  sat  motionless,  the  loud  talk  and 
laughter  of  Hugh  Ogilvie,  and  the  vapid  raurmurings  of 
Mrs.  Lancaster  floating  over  him  confusedly. 

Paul  Lynedon  had  already  disappeared  from  the  dining- 
room.  He  could  not  drive  from  his  mind  the  vague  fear 
lest  his  foolish  aftair  with  Eleanor  Ogilvie  should  be  bruit- 
ed about  in  some  way  or  other.  He  longed  to  stop  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  ever  active  tongue.  And,  judging  feminine 
nature  by  the  blurred  and  blotted  side  on  which  he  had 
viewed  it  for  the  last  few  years,  he  felt  considerable  doubt 
even  of  Eleanor  lierself.  If  she  liad  betrayed,  or  should 
now  betray,  especially  to  Katharine  Ogilvie,  the  secret  of 
his  folly  !  He  would  not  have  such  a  thing  happen  for  the 
world  !  Wherefore  he  staid  not  to  consider,  for  Paul's  im- 
petuous feelings  were  rarely  subjected  to  much  self-exam- 
ination. Acting  on  their  impulse  now,  he  bent  his  pride 
to  that  stronger  passion  which  was  insensibly  stealing  over 
him;  and  first  assuring  himself  that  his  fellow-adventurei' 
in  the  drawing-room,  David  Drysdale,  was  safely  engross- 
ing the  conversation  of  their  beautiful  hostess,  Lynedon 
carelessly  strolled  toward  an  inner  apartment,  divided  from 
the  rest  by  a  glass  door,  through  which  he  saw  Eleanor,  sit- 
ting; thousrhtful  and  alone. 

"  Now  is  my  time,"  said  Paul  to  himself;  "  but  I  must 
accomplish  the  matter  with  finesse  and  diplomacy.  What  a 
fool  I  Avas  ever  to  have  brought  myself  into  such  a  scrape  !" 

He  walked  with  as  much  indifterence  as  he  could  assume 
through  the  half-open  door,  which  silently  closed  after  him. 
He  was  rather  glad  of  this,  for  then  there  would  be  no  eaves- 
droppers.    Eleanor  looked  up,  and  found  herself  alone  with 


THE    OGILVIES.  319 

the  lovei-  she  liad  once  rejected.  But  there  was  no  fear  of 
his  again  imposing  on  her  the  same  painful  necessity,  lor  a 
more  careless,  good-humored  smile  never  sat  on  the  face 
of  the  most  indifferent  acquaintance  than  that  which  Paul 
Lj^nedon's  now  wore. 

"  Do  I  intrude  on  your  meditations,  Miss  Ogilvie  ?  If 
so,  send  me  away  at  once,  whicli  will  be  treating  me  with 
the  candor  of  an  old  friend.  But  I  liad  rather  claim  the 
privilege  in  a  different  way,  and  be  allowed  to  stay  and 
have  a  little  pleasant  chat  with  you." 

Eleanor  would  fain  have  been  left  to  solitude ;  but 
through  life  she  had  thought  of  others  first — of  herself 
last.  It  gave  her  true  pleasure,  that  by  meeting  Lyne- 
don's  frankness  with  equal  cordiality  she  could  atone  to 
the  friend  for  the  pain  once  given  to  the  lover.  So  she 
answered  kindly,  "  Indeed,  I  shall  be  quite  glad  to  renew 
our  old  sociable  talks." 

"  Then  we  are  friends  —  real,  open  -  hearted,  sincere 
friends,"  answered  Paul,  returning  her  smile  with  one  of 
equal  candor.  "  And,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  to 
make  our  friendship  sure,  I  trust  Miss  Ogilvie  has  already 
forgotten  that  I  ever  had  the  presumption  to  aspire  to 
more  ?" 

Eleanor  replied,  with  mingled  sweetness  and  dignity, 

"  I  remember  only  what  was  pleasurable  in  our  acquaiiit' 
ance.  Be  assured  that  the  pain,  which  I  am  truly  glad  to 
see  has  passed  from  your  memory,  rests  no  longer  on  mine. 
We  will  not  speak  or  think  of  it  again,  Mr.  Lynedon." 

But  Paul  still  hesitated.  "  Except  that  I  may  venture 
to  express  one  hope — indeed,  I  should  rather  say  a  convic- 
tion. I  feel  sure  that,  with  one  so  generous  and  delicate- 
minded,  this — this  circumstance  has  remained,  and  will  ever 
remain,  unrevealed  ?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  ?"  And  a  look  as  nearly  approach- 
ing pride  as  Eleanor's  gentle  countenance  could  assume, 
marked  her  wounded  feeling.  "  I  thought  that  you  would 
have  judged  more  worthily  of  mc — of  any  woman." 

"  Of  you,  indeed,!  ought.     I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  Miss 


320  THE    OGILVIES. 

Ogilvie,"  ci'ied  Lynedon,  giving  way  to  a  really  sincere  im 
pulse  of  compunction,  and  gazing  in  her  face  with  some- 
thing of  his  old  reverence.  "I  do  believe  you,  as  ever,  the 
kindest,  noblest  creature — half  woman,  half  saint ;  and,  ex- 
cept that  I  am  unworthy  of  the  boon,  it  would  be  a  bless- 
ing to  me  through  life  to  call  you  friend." 

"  Indeed  you  shall  call  me  so,  and  I  will  strive  to  make 
the  title  justly  mine,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  bright,  warm- 
hearted smile,  as  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him. 

He  took  it,  and  j^resscd  it  to  his  lijjs.  Neither  saw  that 
on  this  instant  a  shadoAV  darkened  the  transparent  door, 
and  a  face,  passing  by  chance,  looked  in.  It  was  the  face 
of  Philip  Wychnor ! 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceiwd, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 

Than  doubt  one  heart,  which,  if  believed, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh !  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth ; 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth ! 

Fkances  Anne  Butler. 

""Well,  I  never  in  my  life  knew  a  fellow  so  altered  as 
that  Philip  Wychnor!"  cried  Hugh,  as  he  entered  his  wife's 
dressing-room.  His  sister  had  fled  there  to  gain  a  few  min- 
utes' quiet  and  strength,  after  her  somewhat  painful  intei*- 
view  with  Lynedon,  and  before  the  still  greater  trial  of  the 
formal  evening  that  was  to  come.  As  she  lay  on  the  couch, 
wearied  in  heart  and  frame,  there  w^as  ever  in  her  thought 
tiie  name  which  her  brother  now  uttered  carelessly — al- 
most angrily.  It  made  her  start  with  added  suffering. 
Hugh  continued : 

"I  suppose  he  thinks  it  is  so  fine  to  have  grown  an  au- 
thor and  a  man  of  genius,  that  he  may  do  any  thing  he 
likes,  and  play  oif  all  sorts  of  airs  on  his  old  friends." 


THE    OGILVIES.  321 

"  Nay,  Hugli,  what  lias  he  done?"  said  Eleanor,  her  heart 
sinking  colder  and  colder, 

"  Only  that,  after  all  the  tronhle  we  had  to  get  him  here 
to-night,  he  has  gone  off  just  now  without  having  even  the 
civility  to  say  good-by." 

"Gone  !  is  he  gone?"  and  she  started  up  ;  butrecollect- 
ed  herself  in  time  to  add,  "You  forget;  he  may  be  ill." 

"  111  ?  nonsense  !"  cried  Hugh,  as  he  stood  lazily  lolling 
against  the  window.  "  Look  !  there  he  goes,  tearing  across 
the  Park  as  if  he  were  liaving  a  walking-match,  or  racing 
with  Brown  Bess  hei-self  There's  a  likely  fellow  to  be  illi 
Phew!  it's  only  a  vagary  for  effect — I've  learned  these 
games  since  I  married.  But  I  must  go  down  to  this  con- 
founded soiree.''''     And  he  lounged  off  moodily. 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  Eleanor  sprang  to  the  window. 
It  was  indeed  Philip — she  saw  him  clearly  :  liis  slender  fig- 
ure and  floating  lair  hair — looking  shadowy,  almost  ghost- 
like, in  the  evening  light.  He  walked  rapidly — nay,  flew  ! 
It  might  have  been  a  fiend  that  was  pursuing  him  instead 
of  the  weeping  eyes,  the  outstretched  arms,  the  agonized 
murmur — "  Philip,  oh  !  my  Philip  !" 

He  saw  not, he  heard  not, but  sped  onward — disappeared! 
Then  Eleanor  sank  down,  nigh  broken-hearted.  Was  this 
the  blessed  meeting,  the  day  so  longed  for,  begun  in  joy,  to 
end  in  such  cruel  misery  ? 

No,  not  all  misery ;  for  wdien  the  first  bitterness  passed, 
and  she  began  to  think  calmly,  there  dawned  the  ho])e  that 
Philip  loved  her  still.  His  very  avoidance  of  her,  that  heavy 
sigh,  most  of  all  his  sudden  departure,  as  though  he  had 
fled  unable  to  endure  her  presence — all  these  showed  that 
his  heart  had  not  grown  utterly  cold.  He  had  loved  her 
once  —  she  believed  that.  She  would  have  believed  it 
though  the  v/hole  world  had  borne  testimony  against  it, 
and  against  him.  It  was  impossible  but  that  some  portion 
of  this  deep  true  love  must  linger  still.  Some  unaccount- 
able change  had  come  over  him — some  great  sorrow  or  im- 
agined wrong  had  warped  his  mind. 

Was  this  the  reason  that  now  for  weeks,  months,  he  had 


322  THE    OGILVIES. 

never  answered  her  letters  ?  Did  he  wish  to  consider  their 
eno-aofement  broken?  But  no:  for  his  last  letter  was  full 
of  love — full  of  the  near  hope  of  making  her  his  own. 
Whatever  had  been  the  cause  of  estrangement,  if  the  love 
were  still  there,  in  his  heart  as  in  her  own,  she  would  win 
him  back  yet ! 

"  Yes,"  she  cried, "  I  will  have  patience.  I  will  put  from 
me  all  pride — all  resentment.  If  there  has  been  wrong,  I 
Avill  be  the  first  to  say  'Forgive  me  !'  lie  is  still  the  same 
— good  and  true — I  see  it  in  his  face,  I  feel  it  in  my  soul. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?" 

Hugh's  half-mocking,  hall-angry  woi'ds  concerning  liim 
troubled  her  for  a  moment.  She  heaved  a  low,  shuddering 
sigh,  and  tlien  the  suffering  passed. 

"  Even  if  so,  I  will  not  despair.  Oh,  my  Philip,  if  it  be 
that  vou  are  chano-ed.that  this  evil  Avorldhas  cast  its.shad- 
o\v  over  ycur  pure  heart,  still  I  will  not  leave  you!  You 
were  mine — you  are  mine,  in  suffering — even  in  sin  !  I  will 
stand  by  you,  and  pray  God  night  and  day  for  you,  and 
never — never  give  you  up  until  you  are  my  true,  noble 
Philip  once  more." 

She  stood,  her  clasped  hands  raised,  her  face  shining  with 
a  faith  all-perfect — faith  in  Heaven,  and  faith  in  him.  Oh, 
men  !  to  whom  woman's  love  is  a  light  jest,  a  haughty 
scorn,  how  know  you  but  that  you  drive  from  your  path- 
way and  from  your  side  a  guardian  presence,  which,  in 
blessing  and  in  prayer,  might  have  been  for  you  as  omnij)- 
otent  as  an  angel  ? 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  entered,  while  her  sister  still  stood,  pale  and 
thoughtful.  Katliarine  was  very  restless — her  cheek  burned 
and  her  eye  glittered.  The  contrast  was  never  so  strong 
between  the  two. 

"Why,  what  is  this,  my  dear  child?"  At  another  time 
Eleanor  would  have  smiled  at  the  half-patronizing  title; 
but,  as  the  tall,  magniiiecnt-lookmg  woman  of  the  Avorid 
bent  over  her,  she  felt  that  it  was  scarcely  strange.  She 
was  indeed  a  child  to  her  "little  cousin"  now.  Alas!  she 
knew  not  that  Katharine  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 


THE    OGILVIES.  323 

ta^en  the  fresh,  simple  child's  heart  into  her  racked  "bosom 
once  more  ! 

"  How  quiet  you  are,  Eleanor  !  How  dull  this  room  seems, 
when  we  are  all  below  so  merry — so  merry  !"  And  she 
laughed  that  mocking:  lauo-h — an  echo  true  as  the  words. 

"Are  you  merry?  I  am  glad  of  it,"  was  Eleanor's  sim- 
ple reply.  "But  you  must  forgive  my  staying  here,  I  am 
so  weary." 

"  Weary  !  I  thought  you  happy,  good,  country  damsels 
were  never  M'eary,  as  we  are." 

"TT'e/  Nay,  Katharine,  are  not  you  yourself  country- 
bred,  good,  and  happy  ?" 

Again  there  came  the  musical  laugh — light,  but  oh  !  how 
bitter  !  "  For  the  first  adjective,  I  suppose  I  must  acknowl- 
edge the  crime,  or  misfortune;  for  the  second,  you  can  ask 
Hugh  ;  for  the  third — well,  you  may  ask  him  too — of  course 
he  knows  !  But  I  must  go.  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  No  ? 
Then  good-by,  fair  coz." 

'■'•  Sister  P''  was  the  gentle  word  that  met  Katharine  as  she 
was  departing  with  the  fluttering  gayety  she  had  so  well 
learned  to  assume.  And  Eleanor  came  softly  behind,  and 
put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her  brother's  wife. 

"Ah  !  yes,  I  forgot — of  course,  avc  are  sisters  now.  Are 
you  glad  of  it,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes,  most  happy  !     And  you  ?" 

Katharine  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  then  shrank  away. 
"  Let  me  go  !  I  mean  that  your  arm — your  bracelet — hurts 
me,"  she  added,  hurriedly. 

Eleanor  removed  it.  Katharine  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  stooped  forward  and  kissed  her  cheek,  saying  atiec- 
tionately, 

"You  are  a  dear,  good  girl,  as  of  old.  You  will  bear 
wuth  me,  Nelly  ?  I  am  tired — perhaps  not  well.  This  gay 
life  is  too  much  for  me." 

"  Then  why—" 

"  Ah  !  be  quiet,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  tapping  Elea- 
nor's shoulder  with  her  perfumed  fan.  "  You  shall  lecture 
me  to-night,  when  I  have  sent  away  these  people — that  is, 


324  THE    OGILVIES. 

my  guests,"  she  continued,  remembering  who  was  of  tlie 
number.  And  as  she  went  away,  Katharine  could  almost 
liave  cut  out  her  own  tongue,  that  had  carelessly  ranked 
Paul  Lynedon  in  the  tribe  thus  designated.  Though  made 
a  slave,  he  was  an  idol  still, 

P^or  an  hour  longer  Eleanor  sat  alone  by  the  window, 
sometimes  trying  to  calm  her  spirit  with  looking  up  at  the 
deep  peace  of  the  moonlight  sky,  and  tlien  watching  the 
carriages  that  rolled  to  the  door,  bearing  away  guest  after 
guest.  The  last  who  left  departed  on  foot.  Eleanor  dis- 
tinguished his  tall  figure  passing  hastily  through  the  little 
shrubbery,  and  fancied  it  Avas  like  Mr.  Lynedon's,  But  she 
tliouglit  little  on  the  subject,  for  immediately  afterward  her 
sister  entered, 

Katharine  stood  at  the  door,  the  silver  lamp  she  held 
casting  a  rich  subdued  light  on  her  face  and  person.  She 
wore  a  pale  amber  robe,  and  a  gold  net  confined  her  hair. 
Lvive  this,  she  had  no  ornament  of  any  kind.  She  took  a 
])ride  in  showing  thnt  her  daring  beauty  scorned  all  such 
adjuncts.  AVell  she  miglit,  for  a  more  magnificent  creature 
never  rode  triumjihant  over  human  hearts. 

Even  Eleanor — lifting  up  her  meek,  sorrowful  gaze — ac- 
knowledged this. 

"  Katharine,  how  beautiful  you  have  grown  !  You  see 
my  prophecy  was  right.  Do  you  remember  it,  that  night 
at  Summerwood,  when  the  Lancasters  first  came,  and  Mr. 
Lynedon  ?" 

The  silver  lamp  fell  to  the  floor. 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  and  then  Kathariiie  rekin- 
dled the  light,  saying  gayly, 

"  See,  my  dear,  this  comes  of  standing  to  be  looked  at 
and  flattered.  But  I  will  have  your  praise  still :  now  look 
at  me  once  more  !" 

"Still  beautiful — most  beautiful!  perhaps  the  more  so 
because  of  your  paleness.  Yellow  suits  well  with  your 
black  hair." 

"  Does  it  ?" 

"And  how  simple  your  dress  is !  no  jewels?  no  flowers?" 


THE    OGILVIES.  325 

"  I  never  wear  either.  I  hate  your  bits  of  shining  stone, 
precious  only  because  the  world  chooses  to  make  them 
rare ;  and  as  for  flowers,  I  trod  down  my  life's  flowers  long- 
ago." 

The  indistinct  speech  was  lost  upon  Eleanor's  wandering 
mind.  She  made  no  answer,  and  the  two  sisters-in-law  sat 
for  some  minutes  without  exchanging  a  word.  At  last 
Eleanor  said, 

"  Will  not  Hugh  or  Sir  Robert  come  in  and  speak  to  us 
before  we  all  go  to  rest  ?" 

"  Sir  Robert  ?  Oh,  he  retired  an  hour  ago ;  he  keeps 
Summer  wood  time.  As  for  Hugh,  I  doubt  if  either  wife 
or  sister  could  draw  him  from  his  beloved  cigars  and 
punch.  Don't  flatter  yourself  with  any  such  thing ;  I  fear 
you  must  be  content  with  my  society." 

"Indeed  I  am,"  said  Eleanor,  aflectionately  laying  her 
hand  on  Katharine's  arm. 

She  shrank  restlessly  beneath  the  touch;  but  the  mo- 
ment after  she  leaned  her  head  on  lier  sister's  shoulder; 
and  though  she  was  quite  silent,  neither  moved  nor  sob- 
bed, Eleanor  felt  on  her  neck  the  drop  of  one  heavy,  burn- 
ing tear. 

"My  own  sister!  my  dear  Katharine!  are  you  ill — un- 
hap})y  ?" 

"No,  no;  quite  well — quite  happy.  Did  I  not  say  so? 
I  think  few  mistresses  of  such  a  gay  revel  as  ours  could  re- 
tire from  it  with  so  fresh  and  blithe  a  face  as  mine  was 
when  you  saw  it  at  the  door.  Still,  I  own  to  being  rather 
tired  now." 

"  Will  you  go  to  rest  ?" 

"  No,  not  just  yet.  Come,  Eleanor,  shall  we  sit  and  talk 
for  half  an  hour,  as  we  used  to  do?  Only  first  I  will  shut 
out  the  moonlight,  it  looks  so  i)ale,  and  cold,  and  melan- 
choly. Wliy,  Nelly,  when  you  stood  in  it  I  could  almost 
have  thought  you  a  ghost — the  ghost  of  that  old  time ! 
What  nonsense  I  am  saying  !" 

She  rose  up  quickly,  drew  the  curtains,  and  the  chamber 
remained  lit  only  by  a  taper  at  the  farther  end. 


826  THE    OGILVIES. 

"I  can  not  endure  this  darkness;  I  will  call  for  lights. 
But  no,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Did  you  ever  know  such  a  fit- 
ful, restless  creature  ?"  continued  she,  throwing  herself  on 
the  ground  at  Eleanor's  feet.  "But  I  am  quiet  now — for 
a  little;  so  begin.     What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

'•  Of  how  strangely  things  change  in  life.  Who  would 
have  thought  that  the  little  Katharine  I  used  to  play  with, 
and  lecture,  and  wonder  at — for  I  did  wonder  at  you  some- 
times— would  have  grown  into  this  Katharine?" 

"  Ay,  who  would  have  thought  it  ?" 

"  And  still  more,  that  she  should  be  Hugh's  wife — my 
sister;  and  I  never  guessed  that  you  loved  one  another! 
Indeed,  I  thought—" 

"  What  did  you  think  ?  tell  me,"  said  Katharine,  sud- 
denly. 

"  That  you  would  certainly  have  chosen — not  dear,  qniet, 
gentle  Hugh,  but  some  hero  of  romance." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  you  were  mistaken  then." 

"  Yes,  truly.  Yet  she  was  a  little  dreamer,  was  the  dear 
Katharine  of  Summerwood !  How  well  I  remember  the 
night  we  sat  together,  as  we  do  now,  talking  of  many 
things  —  of  Mr.  Lynedon  especially.  Oh,  Katharine,  we 
are  both  changed  since  then !"  said  Eleanor,  sadly,  as  her 
memory  flew  back,  and  her  own  sorrows  once  more  sank 
heavy  on  that  gentle  heart,  so  ready  to  forget  itself  in  and 
for  others. 

Katharine  lay  silent,  and  w^ithout  moving— only  once 
she  shivered  convulsively. 

"How  cold  you  are — your  hands,  your  neck!  Let  me 
Avrap  you  in  this  shawl,"  Eleanor  said.  "And,  indeed,! 
will  not  keep  you  talking  any  longer.  Be  good,  dear,  and 
go  to  rest !" 

"  Rest !  O  God  !  that  I  could  rest— forever !"  was  the 
smothered  moan  that  broke  from  Katharine's  lips. 

"  What  were  you  saying,  love  ?" 

"  Only  that  I  Avill  do  any  thing  you  like,  Eleanor.  But 
I  am  forgetting  all  my  duties.  Come,  I  will  see  you  to 
your  room." 


THE    OGILVIES.  327 

She  rose  up,  and  the  two  sisters  passed  thither — affec- 
tionately too,  with  linked  arms. 

"  Now,  dearest  Katharine,  you  will  promise  me  to  go  to 
bed  and  sleep  ?" 

"■  Yes,  yes — only  let  me  breathe  first."  She  threw  open 
the  window,  and  drank  in,  almost  with  a  gasp,  the  cool 
tiio-ht-air  of  summer.  Eleanor  came  beside  her:  and  so 
they  stood,  the  peaceful  heaven  shining  on  both,  with  its 
moonlight  and  its  stars.  Then  Katharine  drew  her  sister's 
face  between  her  two  hands,  and  said, 

"  There,  now  you  look  as  when  I  saw  you  at  the  window 
to-night — pale,  pure,  like  a  warning  spirit,  or  an  angel.  I 
think  you  are  both  !  And  I — Eleanor,  remember,  in  all 
times,  under  all  chance  or  change,  that  I  did  love  you — I 
shall  love  you — always." 

The  smile — that  unearthly,  almost  awful  smile,  passed 
from  her  face,  showing  what  was  left  when  the  fitful  gleam 
had  vanished — a  countenance  of  utter  despair  !  But  it  was 
turned  from  Eleanor — she  never  saw  it.  Had  she  done  so, 
perhaps —     But  no,  it  was  too  late  ! 

"  I  believe  you  love  rae,  dearest,  as  I  you,"  she  answered, 
tenderly ;  "  we  are  sisters  now  and  forever.    Good-night !" 

They  kissed  each  other  once  more,  and  then  Katharine 
turned  away,  but  on  the  threshold  her  foot  stayed. 

"  Eleanor !" 

Eleanor  sprang  toward  her. 

"  You  say  your  prayers  every  night,  as  children  do — as 
we  did  together  once,  when  I  was  a  little  child  ?  Well, 
say  for  me  to-night,  as  then,  '  God  bless' — no,  no — '  God 
take  care  of  Katharine  !' " 

Ere  she  glided  away,  she  lifted  her  eyes  upward  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  leaning  back,  closed  them  firmly.  El- 
eanor never  again  saw  on  her  face  that  quiet,  solemn  look 
— never — until — 

P 


328  THE    OGILVIES, 


CHAPTER  XLIIL 

We  women  have  four  seasons,  like  the  year. 
Our  spring  is  in  our  hghtsome,  girlish  days, 
When  the  heart  laughs  within  us  for  sheer  joy. 
Summer  is  when  we  love  and  are  beloved. 
Autumn,  when  some  young  thing  with  tiny  hands 
Is  wantoning  about  us,  day  and  aight ; 
And  winter  is  when  those  we  love  have  perished. 
Some  miss  one  season — some  another  ;  this 
Shall  have  them  early,  and  that  late ;  and  yet 
The  year  wears  round  with  all  as  best  it  may. 

Philip  Bailet. 

Hugh  and  his  sister  breakfasted  alone  togetlier.  Sir 
Robert  had  gone  through  that  necessary  ceremony  an 
liour  before,  and  retired  to  liis  legislative  duties.  Poor 
man  !  he  spent  as  much  time  in  trying  to  bind  up  the 
wounds  of  the  nation  as  though  the  sole  doctor  and  nurse 
of  that  continually-ailing  patient  had  been  Sir  Robert  Ogil- 
vie,  Bart.,  M.P.,  of  Sunimerwood  Park. 

"You  needn't  look  for  Katharine,"  said  the  husband, 
half  sulkily,  half  sadly ;  "  she  never  appears  till  after  elev- 
en. Nobody  ever  does  in  London,  I  suppose — at  least  no- 
body fashionable.  Sit  down,  Eleanor,  and  let  me  for  once 
be  saved  the  trouble  of  pouring  out  my  own  coffee." 

So  the  brother  and  sister  began  their  tUe-d-ttte.  It  was 
rather  an  uninteresting  one,  for  Hugh,  after  another  word 
or  two,  buried  himself  in  the  mysteries  o^ BelVs  Life,  from 
which  he  was  not  exhumed  until  the  groom  sent  word  that 
Brown  Bess  was  waiting. 

"  Good-by,  Nell.  You'll  stay  till  to-morrow,  of  course  ? 
Uncle  won't  go  back  to  Summerwood  before  then."  And 
he  was  off,  as  he  himself  would  characteristically  have  ex- 
pressed it,  "  like  a  shot." 

Ties  of  blood  do  not  necessarily  constitute  ties  of  affec- 
tion.    The  world — ay,  even  the  best  and  truest  part  of  it 


THE    OGILVIES.  329 

—is  a  little  mistaken  on  this  point.  The  parental  or  fra- 
ternal bond  is  at  first  a  mere  instinct,  or,  viewed  in  its 
highest  light,  a  link  of  duty ;  but  when,  added  to  this, 
comes  the  tender  friendship,  the  deep  devotion,  which 
springs  from  sympathy  and  esteem,  then  the  love  is  made 
pei'fect,  and  the  kindred  of  blood  becomes  a  yet  stronger 
kindred  of  heart.  But  unless  circumstances,  or  the  nature 
and  character  of  the  parties  themselves,  allow  opportunity 
for  this  union,  parent  and  child,  brother  and  sister,  are  as 
much  strangers  as  though  no  bond  of  relationship  existed 
between  them. 

Thus  it  was  with  Eleanor  and  Hugh.  They  regarded 
one  another  warmly;  would  have  gladly  fulfilled  any  duty 
of  afl:ection  or  self-sacrifice — at  least,  she  would  ;  but  they 
had  lived  apart  nearly  all  their  lives :  Hugh  nui'tured  as 
his  uncle's  heir — Eleanor,  the  companion  of  her  widowed 
mother,  on  whose  comparatively  lowly  condition  the  rest 
of  the  Ogilvie  family  somewhat  looked  down.  In  charac- 
ter and  disposition  there  was  scarcely  a  single  meeting 
link  of  sympathy  between  them  ;  and  though  they  had  al- 
ways loved  one  another  with  a  kind  of  instinctive  afiection, 
yet  it  had  never  grown  into  that  devotion  which  makes 
the  tie  between  brother  and  sister  the  sweetest  and  dear- 
est of  all  earthly  bonds,  second  only  to  the  one  which 
Heaven  alone  makes — perfect,  heart-united  marriage. 

Eleanor  sat  a  while,  thinking  with  a  vague  doubt  that 
this  was  not  the  sort  of  marriage  between  her  brother  and 
her  cousin.  But  she  was  too  little  acquainted  with  the 
inner  character  of  either  for  her  doubts  to  amount  to  fear. 
They  quickly  vanished  when  Hugh's  wife  came  in,  so  smil- 
ing, so  full  of  playful  grace,  that  Eleanor  could  hardly  be- 
lieve it  was  the  same  Katharine  Avhose  parting  look  the 
previous  night  had  painfully  haunted  her,  even  amid  her 
own  still  more  sorrowful  remembrances. 

"  What !  your  brother  gone,  Nelly?  Why,  then, I  shall 
have  you  all  to  myself  this  morning.  So  come,  bring  your 
work — since  you  are  so  countrified  as  to  have  work — and 
let  us  indulge  in  a  quiet  chat  before  any  one  comes." 


330  THE    OGILVIES. 

"Have  you  many  visitors,  then?" 

"Oh,  the  Lancustevs  might  call,  after  hast  night,  yon 
know;  or  Mr.  Lynedon"  (she  said  the  name  witli  a  reso- 
hite  carelessness)  ;  "  or  even — though  it  is  scarce  likely — 
your  old  friend  and  my  new  one,  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor." 

There  Avas  no  answer.  Katharine  amused  herself  with 
walking  to  the  window,  and  teazing  an  ugly  pet  parrot. 
Poor  exchange  for  the  merry  little  lark  that,  happy  in  its 
love-tended  captivity,  sang  to  the  girl  Katharine  at  Sum- 
merwood  !  Eleanor,  glad  of  any  thing  to  break  the  si= 
lence,  inquired  after  the  old  favorite. 

"Dead!"  was  the  short,  sharp  answer.  The  word  and 
its  tone  might  have  revealed  a  whole  life's  mystery. 

"  But,  Eleanor,"  she  added,  in  a  jesting  manner,  "  you 
always  talk  of  the  past— generally  a  tiresome  subject. 
Let  us  turn  to  something  more  interesting.  For  instance, 
I  want  to  hear  all  you  know  about  Philip  Wychnor.  No 
wonder  you  like  him  :  I  do  already.  How  long  have  you 
known  him?" 

"  Nearly  all  our  lives." 

This  truth — Eleanor  could  not,  would  not,  speak  aught 
but  the  truth — Avas  murmured  with  a  drooping  and  crim- 
soning cheek.  She  revealed  nothing,  but  she  was  unable 
to  feign :  she  never  tried. 

"Eleanor !"  said  Katharine,  catching  her  hands,  and  look- 
ing earnestly  in  her  face — "  sister !  tell  me — " 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant  an- 
nouncing Mr.  Lynedon. 

"  Let  me  creep  away ;  I  am  too  weary  to  talk,"  whis- 
pered Eleanor. 

"  No,  stay  !"  The  gesture  was  imperative,  almost  fierce ; 
but  in  a  moment  it  was  softened,  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie  received 
her  guest  as  3Irs.  Ogilvie  ever  did.  In  her  easy,  dignified 
mien  lingered  not  a  trace  of  Katharine. 

They  talked  for  a  while  the  passing  nothings  incident  on 
morning  visits,  and  then  Mrs.  Ogilvie  noticed  her  sister's 
pale  face. 

"  How  weary  she  is,  poor  Nelly !" — and  the  touch  of  sym* 


THE    OGLLVIES,  331 

pathy  which  prompted  the  words  was  sincere  and  self-for- 
getful— "Go,  love,  and  rest  there  in  my  favorite  chair,  and" 
— with  a  sudden  smile — "  stay !  take  this  book,  also  a  fa- 
vorite; you  will  like  it,  I  know." 

It  was  a  new  volume,  and  bore  Philip  "Wychnor's  name 
on  the  title-page.  There,  sitting  in  the  recess,  Eleanor  read 
her  lover's  soul.  It  was  his  soul ;  for  a  great  and  true 
author,  in  all  he  writes,  will  still  reflect  the  truth  that  is 
within  him — not  as  the  world  sees,  but  as  Heaven  sees. 
Man,  passing  by  on  the  broad  wayside,  beholds  only  the 
battered  leaves  of  the  unsightly,  perhaps  broken  flower; 
but  God's  sun,  shining  into  its  heart,  finds  beauty,  and 
draws  thence  perfume,  so  that  earth  is  made  to  rejoice  in 
what  is  poured  out  unto  heaven  alone. 

It  is  a  merciful  thing,  that  when  fate  seals  up  the  full 
bursting  tide  of  human  hopes  and  human  yearnings  in  a 
great  man's  soul,  the  current,  frozen  for  a  time,  at  length 
flows  back  again  to  enrich  and  glorify,  not  his  poor  earthly 
being,  but  that  which  will  endure  forever — his  true  self — 
his  genius.  And  so  this  his  work,  whatever  it  be,  stands 
to  him  in  the  place  of  all  that  in  life  is  lost,  or  never  real- 
ized;  becomes  to  him  love — hope — joy — home — wife — 
child — every  thing. 

Something  of  this  Philip  "Wychnor  had  already  felt.  His 
work  was  his  soul,  poured  out,  not  for  the  petty  present 
circle  of  individual  praise,  that  Mr.  This  miglit  flatter,  and 
Mrs.  That  might  weep  over  his  page,  but  for  the  great  wide 
world,  wherein  the  true  author  longs  to  dwell — the  hearts 
of  kindred  sympathy,  throbbing  every  where  and  in  all 
time.  He  wrote  that  he  might,  in  the  only  way  he  could, 
make  his  life  an  oftering  to  Heaven,  and  to  the  memory  of 
that  love  which  was  to  hira  next  heaven.  He  wrote,  too^ 
that,  going  down  to  the  grave  lonely  and  childless,  as  he 
deemed  it  would  be,  he  might  thus  leave  behind  him  a  por- 
tion of  his  soul — that  soul  which  through  life  had  kept 
pure  its  faith  in  God  and  her. 

And  so,  looking  on  his  writings,  the  woman  he  loved 
read  his  heart.     She  discerned,  too — as  none  but  she  could 


332  THE    OGILVIES. 

— his  long  patience,  his  struggles,  his  enduring  love.  Al] 
was  dim,  even  to  lier,  still  groping  blindly  in  a  mesh  of  cir- 
cumstances. But  thus  far  she  read — the  unchanged  purity 
of  his  noble  nature- — his  truth,  his  faithfulness,  and  his  love 
— love  for  her,  and  her  alone !  She  knew  it,  she  felt  it 
now. 

A  deep  peace  fell  upon  her  spirit.  She  read  over  and 
over  again  many  a  line — to  the  Avorld,  nothing — to  her, 
Bweet  as  Philip's  own  dear  voice,  hopeful  as  the  love  Avhich 
answered  his.  Alas  that  he  knew  it  not !  She  closed  the 
book,  and  leaned  back  Avith  a  peaceful,  solemn  joy.  As  she 
did  so,  there  came  to  her  heart  a  strong  faith — a  blessed 
forewarning— such  as  Heaven  sometimes  sends  amidst  all- 
conflicting  destinies,  that  one  day  Philip  would  be  her  hus- 
band, and  she  his  wife — never  to  be  sundered  more  !  Never 
— until  the  simple  girl  and  boy,  who  once  looked  out  to- 
gether dreamily  into  life's  future,  should  stand,  still  to- 
ffet/:er,  on  its  verge,  looking  back  on  the  earthly  journey 
traversed  hand-in-hand ;  and  forward,  unto  the  opening 
gates  of  heaven. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  she  had  almost  forgotten 
the  presence  of  Katharine  and  Lynedon,  until  the  former 
stood  behind  her  chair. 

"  What,  Xelly  in  a  reverie  ?  I  thought  dreaming  invari- 
ably ended  with  one's  teens.  Is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Lynedon  V" 
And  she  turned  to  Paul,  who  was  standing  a  little  aloof, 
turning  over  books  and  newspapers  in  an  absent,  half-vexed 
manner.  But  he  was  beside  Katharine  in  a  moment,  never- 
theless. 

"  You  were  speaking  to  me  ?" 

"Yes;  but  my  question  was  hardly  worth  summoning 
you  from  those  interesting  newspapers,  in  which  a  future 
statesman  must  take  such  delight,"  said  Katharine,  with  an 
air  of  careless  badinage.,  whicli  sat  on  her,  like  all  her  va- 
rious moods,  ever  gracefully.  "  I  really  should  apologize 
for  having  entertained  you  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour 
with  that  operatic  discussion  concerning  my  poor  ill-used 
favorite,  Giuseppe  Verdi.     Do  I  linger  properly  on  those 


THK    OGILVIKS.  333 

musical  Italian  syllables?    Answer,  you  Signor  fresh  from 

the  sweet  South." 

"  Every  thing  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done," 

was  Lynedon's  reply ;  too  earnest  to  be  mere  compliment. 

But  Mrs.  Ogilvie  mocked  alike  at  both — or  seemed  to 
mock,  for  her  eye  glittered  even  as  she  spoke.  "  Come,Elea- 
nor,  answer  !  Here  is  Mr.  Lynedon  quoting,  of  course  for 
your  benefit,  since,  if  I  remember  right,  your  acquaintance 
began  over  that  very  excellent  but  yet  somewhat  overlaud- 
ed  individual,  Mr.  William  Shakspeare." 

"  You  remember !"  said  Paul,  eagerly,  and  in  a  low  tone ; 
"do  you  indeed  remember  all  that  time?" 

Katharine's  lips  were  set  together,  and  her  head  turned 
aside.  But  immediately  she  looked  upon  him  coldly  — 
carelessly — too  carelessly  to  be  even  proud.  "'All'  is  a 
comprehensive  Avord;  I  really  can  not  engage  to  lay  so 
heavy  a  tax  on  my  memory,  which  was  never  very  good — 
was  it,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  smiled.  And  then,  making  an  effort,  she  began 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Lynedon  about  the  old  times  and  Summer- 
wood,  until  the  arrival  of  another  visitoi". 

Mrs.  Frederick  Pennythorne  glided  into  the  room  in  all 
the  grace  of  mourning  attire,  the  most  interesting  and 
least  woe-begone  possible.  Never  did  crape  bonnet  sit 
more  tastefully  and  airily,  and  certainly  never  did  it  shade 
a  blither  smile.  The  cousins  met,  as  cousins  do  who  have 
proved  all  their  life  the  falsity  of  the  saying,  that  "  bluid  is 
thicker  than  water." 

"Well,  Miss  Ogilvie  (I  suppose  the  'Eleanor'  time  is 
past  now),"  said  Mrs.  Frederick,  in  a  dignified  parenthesis, 
"here  we  are,  you  see,  all  married — I  beg  your  pardon — 
except  yourself  What  a  pity  that  you  should  be  left  the 
last  bird  on  the  bush  !" 

"If  you  attach  such  discredit  to  the  circumstance,!  think 
I  may  venture  to  say  for  Eleanor  that  it  must  be  entirely 
her  own  fiiult,"  said  Katharine,  in  the  peculiar  tone  with 
which  she  always  suppressed  her  cousin's  ill-natured  speech- 


334  THE    OGILVIES. 

es.  The  cliance  words  brou2;lit  the  color  to  Eleanor's  cheek, 
aud  made  Paul  Lynedon  "fidget  in  his  chair.  For  the  twen- 
tieth time  he  said  to  himself, "  What  a  fool  I  was !" 

"  Oh,  no  doubt — no  doubt  she  has  had  some  offers.  I 
dare  say  she  finds  it  pleasant  and  convenient  to  be  an  old 
maid ;  she  certainly  looks  very  well,  and  tolerably  happy, 
considering.  And  now.  Miss  Eleanor,  since  I  have  paid 
you  this  pretty  compliment,  have  you  never  a  one  for  me  ? 
Do  I  look  much  older,  cli  ?" 

"  People  do  not  usually  grow  aged  in  four  or  five  years," 
said  Eleanor,  hardly  able  to  repress  a  smile. 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  Aged  !  how  could  you  use  the  odious 
word  !  But  still,  I  thought  I  might  seem  altered,  especial- 
ly in  this  disagreeable  mourning." 

"I  was  afraid,  when  first  you  entered — "  began  Eleanor, 
looking  rather  grave. 

"  Nay,  you  need  not  pull  a  long  face  on  the  matter.  It's 
only  for  my  brother-in-law — Leigh  Pennythorne." 

"Leigh !  Is  poor  Leigh  dead?"  cried  Eleanor.  And,  with 
the  quick  sympathy  of  love  which  extends  to  all  near  ot 
dear  to  the  beloved,  she  felt  a  regret,  as  though  she  had 
known  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  he  died  two  months  since — a  great  blessing  too. 
He  suffered  so  much,  poor  fellow!"  added  Mrs.  Frederick, 
catching  from  the  surprised  faces  of  her  two  cousins  a  hint 
as  to  the  finishing  of  her  sentence. 

"  I  was  not  aware,  Eleanor,  that  you  knew  this  poor  boy, 
in  whom  I  too  have  been  interested,"  said  Katharine. 

"  I  have  heard  of  him  a  good  deal." 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  glanced  at  her  sister's  blushing  countenance, 
and  said  no  more. 

"Interested  !"  continued  Isabella,  catching  up  the  word; 
"  I  can't  imagine,  and  never  could,  what  there  was  inter- 
esting in  Leigh ;  and  yet  every  body  made  a  fuss  over 
liim,  especially  that  Mr.Wychnor.  You  know  him,  Katha- 
rine— a  quiet,  stupid  sort  of  young  man  ?" 

"  You  forget,  Isabella,  this  gentleman  happens  to  be  my 
friend,  and  also  that  of  Mr.Lynedon,"  was  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  re- 


THE    OGILVIES.  3GD 

ply.  Her  coi;sin,  who  had  not  noticed  Mr.  Lj^nedon,  bent 
with  mortified  apology  to  the  "  very  distinr/ue-lookmg'''  per- 
sonage who  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  window ;  and,  in 
an  eager  effort  to  follow  np  the  introduction  by  conver- 
sation, Mrs.  Frederick's  vapid  ideas  were  soon  turned  from 
their  original  course. 

She  succeeded  in  getting  through,  as  hundreds  of  her 
character  do,  another  of  the  hours  which  make  up  a  Avliole 
precious  existence.  But  it  is  i:>erhaps  consolatory  to  think 
that  those  by  whom  a  life  is  thus  wasted  are  at  all  events 
squandering  a  capital  which  is  of  no  use  to  any  one — not 
even  to  the  owner.  There  are  people  in  this  world  who 
almost  make  one  question  the  possibility  of  their  attaining 
another.  Their  souls  go  like  the  beasts' — downward ;  so 
that  even  if  their  small  spark  of  immortality  can  survive 
the  quenching  of  the  body,  one  doubts  if  it  would  ever  feel 
either  the  torture  of  Purgatory  or  the  bliss  of  Paradise. 

But  she  seemed  determined  to  outstay  Mr.  Lynedon,  so 
contented  herself  with  impressing  on  her  hearers  the  mel- 
ancholy warning  of  her  departure  once  every  five  minutes. 

"And  besides,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ogilvie"  —  Isabella  some- 
times bestowed  the  Mrs.,  which  she  was  most  punctilious 
in  exacting — "I  wanted  you  to  help  me  through  a  dull 
visit  on  my  mother-in-law:  but  of  course  you  can't  come; 
only  if,  as  Fred — the  ill-natured  creature  ! — has  taken  the 
carriage  to  Hampton — " 

"I  will  order  mine  for  you,"  said  Katharine,  with  tlie 
faintest  possible  smile.  "I  am  engaged  myself;  but,  Elea- 
nor, a  drive  would  do  you  good.  Will  you  take  my  })lace, 
and  visit  poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne  ?"  It  was  a  sudden  and 
kindly  thought,  Avhich  found  its  grateful  echo  in  the  thrill 
of  Eleanor's  lieart. 

Alas !  that  through  life  those  two  had  not  known  each 
other  better,  that  they  might  have  loved  and  sustained 
each  other  more. 

Paul  still  lingered,  trespassing  on  the  utmost  limits  of 
etiquette,  to  gain  another  half  hour — another  minute,  of 
the  presence  which  was  already  growing  more  and  more 

P2  ' 


336  THE    OGILVIES. 

attractive — nay,  bolovod  !  As  Katharine  bade  adieu  to 
her  cousin  and  Eleanor,  she  turned  to  hiiu :  "Mr.  Lyne- 
don,  may  I,  as  a  friend,  appropriate  your  idle  morning,  and 
ask  vou  to  become  k!Uo;ht-errant  to  these  fair  ladies?" 

He  bowed,  wavering  between  disappointment  and  pleas- 
ure. The  latter  triumphed:  that  winning  manner  —  the 
gentle  name  of  "  friend" — would  have  sent  him  to  the 
very  end  of  the  earth  for  her  sake,  or  at  her  bidding. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Know  what  love  is — that  it  draws 
Into  itself  all  passion,  hope,  and  thought ; 
The  heart  of  life,  to  which  all  currents  flow 
Through  every  vein  of  being — which  if  chilled, 
The  streams  are  ice  forever! — Westland  Marston. 

Mrs.  Fredekick  Penntthorne,  in  high  good-humor 
and  good  spirits,  played  off  every  feminine  air  of  which 
she  was  mistress,  for  the  especial  benefit  of  Mr.  Lynedon. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  to  whom  nothing  ever  comes 
amiss  that  comes  in  a  coat  and  hat.  The  passive  recipient 
of  these  attentions  received  them  at  first  coldly,  and  after- 
ward with  some  amusement,  for,  despite  his  dawning  pas- 
sion, Lynedon  could  not  already  deny  his  nature.  He  was 
but  a  man — a  man  of  the  world — and  she  a  pretty  woman  ; 
so  he  looked  smiling  and  pleased — ready  to  snatch  an  hour's 
idle  amusement,  which  would  be  utterly  forgotten  the  next. 

Oh  Love  !  mocked  at  and  trifled  with  when  thou  wouldst 
come  as  an  angel  of  blessing,  how  often  dost  thou  visit  at 
last — an  avenging  angel  of  doom  ! 

Leaning  back  silent  and  quiet,  Eleanor  felt  oppressed  by 
an  almost  trembling  eagerness.  To  tread  where  Philip's 
weary  feet  had  so  often  trod ;  to  enter  the  house  of  which 
his  letters  had  frequently  spoken ;  to  see  the  gentle  and 
now  desolate  woman  whom  he  had  liked,  and  who  had  been 
kind  to  him  in  those  sorrowful  days — these  were  indeed 
sweet,  though  stolen  pleasures  unto  his  betrothed.  For 
she  was  his  betrothed  still — her  heart  told  her  so ;  a  pass- 


THE    OGILVIES.  337 

inn'  cstranscement  could  never  break  the  faithful  bond  of 
years. 

Love  makes  the  most  ordinary  things  appear  sacred. 
Simple  Eleanor!  to  her  the  dull  road  and  the  glaring  for- 
mal square  were  interesting — even  beautiful.  She  looked 
up  at  the  liouse  itself  with  loving,  wistful  eyes,  as  though 
the  shadow  of  Philip's  presence  were  still  reflected  there. 
She  crossed  the  threshold  where  he  had  passed  so  many  a 
time — the  very  track  of  his  footsteps  seemed  hallowed  in 
her  sight.  Oh  woman  !  woman  !  whom  idle  poets  cele- 
brate as  a  capricious  goddess,  how  often  art  thou  the  ver- 
iest of  idolaters ! 

Lynedon  remained  in  the  carriage.  He  never  liked  visits 
of  condolence,  or  intei'views  at  all  approaching  to  the  dole- 
ful ;  so  he  made  a  show  of  consideration  for  "  poor  Mrs. 
Pennythorne's  feelings,"  and  enacted  the  sympathizing  and 
anxious  friend  by  means  of  a  couple  of  cards. 

There  is  a  deep  solemnity  on  entering  a  house  over  which 
the  shadow  of  a  great  woe  still  lingers,  where  pale  Patience 
sits  smiling  by  the  darkened  hearth,  giving  all  due  welcome 
to  the  stranger,  yet  not  so  but  that  the  welcomed  one  can 
feel  this  to  be  a  mere  passing  interest.  No  tear  may  dim 
the  eye,  the  lips  may  not  once  utter  the  name — now  only 
a  name — but  the  visitant  knows  that  the  thoughts  are  far 
away,  far  as  heaven  is  from  earth ;  and  he  pictures  almost 
with  awe  what  must  be  the  depth  of  the  grief  that  is  not 
seen. 

Eleanor  and  her  cousin  passed  into  the  drawing-room. 
It  had  a  heavy,  damp  atmosphere,  like  that  of  a  room  long 
closed  up. 

"  How  disagreeable  !  They  never  sit  in  this  room  now% 
because  of  that  likeness  over  the  mantel -piece.  Why 
couldn't  they  have  it  removed,  instead  of  shutting  up  the 
only  tolerable  room  in  the  house?"  said  Isabella,  as  she 
drew  up  the  Venetian  blind,  and  partly  illumined  the 
gloomy  apartment. 

"Is  that  poor  Leigh?"  asked  Eleanor.  It  was  a  portrait 
— a  commonplace,  bright-colored  daub,  but  still  a  portrait 


338  THE    OGILVIES. 

—of  a  little  child  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  arms  full  of 
flowers.     "  Was  it  like  him  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit ;  hut  'tis  all  that  is  left  of  the  boy." 

All  left !  the  sole  memento  of  that  brief  young  life ! 
Eleanor  gazed  upon  it  with  interest  —  even  with  tears. 
She  was  standing  looking  at  it  still  when  the  mother  en- 
tered. 

Eleanor  turned  and  met  the  meek  brown  eyes — once 
fondly  chronicled  to  her  as  being  like  her  own;  but  all 
memory  of  herself  or  of  Philip  passed  away  when  she  be- 
held Mrs.  Pennythorne.  What  was  earthly  love,  even  in 
its  most  sacred  form,  to  that  hallowed  grief,  patient  but 
perpetual,  which  to  the  mourner  became  as  a  staff  to  lean 
on  through  the  narrow  valley  whose  sole  ending  must  be 
the  tomb? 

Even  Isabella's  careless  tone  sank  subdued  before  that 
soundless  footfall— that  quiet  voice  !  She  introduced  her 
cousin  with  an  awkward  half-apology. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  mind  her  being  a  stranger,  but" — 
here  a  bright  thought  struck  Isabella—"  she  knows  your 
great  favorite,  Mr.  Wychnor." 

A  smile— or  at  least  its  shadow— all  that  those  patient 
lips  would  ever  wear  on  earth — showed  how  the  mother's 
gratitude  had  become  affection.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  took 
Eleanor's  hand  affectionately. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  have  ever  heard  of  you,  but  indeed  I 
am  very  glad  to  see  you,  for  Mr.Wychnor's  sake." 

It  was  the  dearest  Avelcome  in  the  world  to  Eleanor 

Ogilvie. 

"Have  you  seen  him  to-day?"  pursued  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne, simply  ;  "  but  indeed  you  could  not,  for  he  has  been 
with  me  all  the  morning.  I  made  him  stay,  because  he 
seemed  worn  and  ill." 

"  111 !"  echoed  Eleanor,  anxiously.  But  her  word  and 
look  passed  unnoticed,  for  Isabella  was  watching  Lynedon 
from  the  window,  and  Mrs.  Pennythorne  answered  uncon- 
sciously, 

"  Yes ;  he  has  not  looked  w^ell  of  late ;  I  have  been  quite 


TilE    OOILVIES.  339 

uneasy  about  him.  I  left  him  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  par- 
lor.   Shall  we  go  down  there  now  ?  he  will  be  so  dull  alone." 

She  led  the  way,  Isabella  reluctantly  quitting  her  post  of 
observation, 

"Always  Mr.AVychnor!  What  a  bore  that  young  man 
is  !"  she  observed  to  her  cousin.  But  Eleanor  heard  noth- 
in<T — thought  of  nothing — save  that  Philip  was  near — Phil- 
ip ill — sad ! 

So  ill,  so  sad,  that  he  scarce  moved  at  the  opening  door, 
but  lay  with  eyes  closed  heavily,  as  though  the  light  itself 
Avere  pain ;  and  lips  pressed  together,  lest  their  trembling 
should  betray,  even  in  solitude,  what  the  firm  will  had  re- 
solved to  conquer,  forbidding  even  the  relief  of  sorrow. 

For  one  brief  instant  she  beheld  him  thus — she,  his  be- 
trothed, who  would  have  given  her  life  for  his  sake.  Her 
heart  yearned  over  him,  abnost  as  a  mother's  over  a  child. 
She  could  have  knelt  beside  him  and  taken  the  weary, 
drooping  head  to  her  bosom,  comforting  and  cherishing  as 
a  woman  only  can  ;  but — 

He  saw  her !  there  came  a  momentary  spasm  over  his 
face,  and  tiien,  starting  up,  he  met  her  Avith  a  cold  eye,  as 
he  had  done  the  night  before. 

It  caused  her  heart — that  heart  overflowing  with  tender- 
ness and  love — to  freeze  within  her.  She  shrank  back,  and 
had  hardly  strength  to  give  him  the  listless  hand  of  out- 
ward courtes}^  He  took  it  as  courtesy — nothing  moi-e. 
And  thus  they  met  the  second  time,  as  strangers,  worse 
than  strangers — they  who  had  been  each  other's  very  life 
for  so  many  years  !  He  began  to  talk — not  with  her,  save 
the  few  words  that  formality  exacted — but  with  Mrs.  Pen- 
nythorne.  A  few  frigid  nothings  passed  constrainedly,  and 
then  Isabella  cried  out, 

"  Goodness,  Eleanor,  how  pale  you  are  !" 

Eleanor  was  conscious  of  Philip's  sudden  glance — full  of 
anxiety,  wild  tenderness,  any  thing  but  coldness.  He  half 
sprang  to  her  side,  and  then  paused,  Mrs.  Pennythorne 
observed  that  the  room  was  close,  and  perhaps  Mr.Wych' 
nor  would  open  the  window. 


340  THE    OGILVIES. 

He  did  so,  and  saw  Paul  Lynedon  ! 

Once  more  his  eye  became  cold — meaningless — stern.  It 
souglit  Eleanor's  no  more.  He  sat  down  beside  Mrs.  Fred- 
erick, answering  vagnely  her  light  chatter.  Five  minutes 
after,  he  made  some  idle  excuse  and  left  the  house. 

"What  a  pity, when  he  had  promised  to  stay  until  din- 
ner-time !"  said  Mrs.  Penny thorne. 

He  had  gone, then, to  escape  her!  Eleanor  saw  it — knew 
it.  Colder  and  colder  her  heart  grew,  until  it  felt  like  stone. 
She  neither  trembled  nor  wept ;  she  only  wished  that  she 
could  lie  down  and  die.  Thus,  silent  as  she  came — but  oh  ! 
with  what  a  different  silence — she  departed  from  the  house. 

To  those  who  suffer,  there  is  no  life  more  bitter,  more  full 
of  continual  outward  mockery,  than  that  of  an  author  im- 
mersed in  the  literary  life  of  London.  In  a  duller  sphere 
a  man  may  hide  his  misery  in  his  chamber — may  fly  with 
it  to  some  blessed  country  solitude — even  wrap  it  round 
him  like  a  mantle  of  pride  or  stupidity,  and  pass  unnoticed 
in  the  common  crowd.  But  here  it  is  impossible.  He  must 
fill  his  place  in  his  circle — perhaps  a  brilliant  one;  and  if 
so,  he  must  shine  too,  as  much  as  ever.  He  must  keep  in 
the  society  which  is  so  necessary  to  his  worldly  prospects 
— he  must  be  seen  in  those  haunts  which  are  to  others 
amusement,  to  him  business — in  theatre,  exhibition,  or  so- 
cial meeting ;  so  at  last  he  learns  to  do  as  others  do — to 
act.  It  is  merely  creating  a  new  self  as  he  does  a  new  char- 
acter ;  and  perhaps  in  time  this  fictitious  self  becomes  so 
habitual,  that  never,  save  in  those  works  which  the  world 
calls  fiction,  but  which  arc  indeed  his  only  true  life,  does 
the  real  man  shine  out. 

Philip  Wychnor  h.ad  not  gone  so  far  as  this  on  the  track 
of  simulation;  day  and  night  he  prayed  that  it  never  might 
be  so  with  him.  The  world  had  not  cast  upon  him  her 
many-colored  fooFs  vesture,  but  she  had  taught  him  so  to 
wear  his  own  robe  that  no  eye  could  penetrate  the  work- 
ings of  the  heart  within.  He  had  his  outward  life  to  lead, 
and  he  led  it — without  deceit,  but  without  betrayal  of 
auofht  that  was  within. 


THE    OGILVIES.  341 

So  it  chanced  that  the  self-same  night,  when  Eleanoi-, 
yielding  to  Kathaiine's  restless  eagerness  for  any  thing  that 
might  smooth  time's  passing  and  deaden  thought,  went 
with  her  to  some  place  of  amusement — a  "  Shakspeare  read- 
ing"— the  first  face  she  saw  was  Philip  Wychnor's.  She 
saw  it — not  pale,  worn,  dejected,  as  a  few  hours  since,  hut 
wearing  the  look  of  courteous,  almost  pleased  attention,  as 
lie  listened,  nay,  talked  among  a  group  whose  very  names 
brought  thoughts  of  wit,  and  talent,  and  gayety.  She  look- 
ed at  him — she,  with  her  anguished,  half  broken  heart — he 
the  centre  of  that  brilliant  circle ;  and  then  the  change 
burst  upon  her.  The  Philip  Wychnor  of  the  world  was  not 
Iters.  What  Avas  she  to  him  now  ?  She  turned  away  her 
head,  and  strove  to  endure  patiently,  without  sorrow.  That 
he  should  be  great  and  honored — rich  in  fame — ought  not 
that  to  be  happiness?  If  he  loved  not  her,  she  might  still 
worship  him.  So  she  pressed  her  anguish  down  in  the  low- 
est depths  of  her  faithful  heart,  and  tried  to  make  it  re- 
joice in  his  glory  ;  content  to  be  even  trodden  down  under 
his  footsteps,  so  that  those  footsteps  led  him  unto  the  lofty 
path  whither  he  desired  to  go.  She  watched  him  from  afar — 
his  kindling  eye,  his  beautiful  countenance,  on  wliich  sat  ge- 
nius and  truth  ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  nothing  that  her  own 
poor  unknown  life,  with  its  hopes  and  joys,  should  be  sacri- 
ficed, to  give  unto  the  world  and  unto  fame  such  a  one  as  ho. 

He  passed  from  the  ciix-le  where  he  stood,  and  moving 
listlessly,  without  looking  around  him,  came  and  sat  down 
beside  Katharine.  At  her  greeting  he  started  :  again — as 
if  that  perpetual  doom  must  ever  haunt  them — the  once 
betrothed  lovers  met. 

The  play  was  Borneo  and  Juliet.  They  had  read  it 
when  almost  children,  sitting  in  the  palace  garden ;  they 
had  acted  it  once — the  balcony  scene — leaning  over  the 
terrace  wall.  Slie  wondered.  Did  he  think  of  this  ?  But 
she  dared  not  look  at  him ;  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  So  she  remained  silent,  and  he  too.  Katharine  sat 
between  them — sometimes  listening  to  the  play,  sometimes 
turning  a  restless,  eager  gaze  around. 


342  THE    OGILVIES. 

If  any  human  eye  could  have  looked  into  those  three 
hearts,  he  would  have  seen  there  as  mournful  deptlis  as 
ever  the  world's  great  Poet  sounded.  Ay,  and  it  would 
be  so  to  the  end  of  time  !  Cold  age  may  preach  them 
down,  worldliuess  may  make  a  mock  at  them,  but  still  the 
two  great  truths  of  life  are  Romance  and  Love. 

The  play  ended.  "  He  will  not  come,"  said  Katharine, 
laughing;  '-I  mean— not  Hugh,  but  Mr.  Lynedon,  whom 
he  said  he  would  ask  to  meet  us  here.  What  shall  we  do, 
Eleanor?  How  shall  we  punish  the  false  knight?"  she 
continued,  showing  forth  mockingly  the  real  anger  which 
she  felt.     It  was  a  good  diso-uise. 

Eleanor  answered  in  a  few  gentle  words.  Philip  only 
understood  that  they  were  a  pleading— and  for  Lynedon  ! 
"  Will  you  take  the  place  of  our  faithless  cavalier,  and 
succor  us,  Mr.  Wychnor?"  was  Katharine's  winning  re- 
quest. He  could  not  but  accede.  He  felt  impelled  by  a 
blind  destiny  which  drove  him  on  against  his  will.  At 
last  he  ceased  even  to  strive  against  it. 

He  accompanied  the  two  ladies  home.  Then,  when  Mrs. 
Ogilvie,  in  her  own  irresistible  Avay,  besought  liim  not  to 
leave  the  rescued  damsels  in  solitude,  but  to  spend  a  quiet 
hour  with  herself  and  Eleanor,  he  complied  passively — me- 
chanically— and  entered. 

There  were  flowers  on  the  table.  "  The  very  flowers, 
Eleanor,  that  I — or  rather  you— admired  in  the  gardens 
to-day!"  cried  Katharine.  "Well,  that  atones  for  the 
falsehood  of  this  evening.  Mr.  Lynedon  is  a  preitx  chev- 
alier after  all.  A  bouquet  for  each !  How  kind  '  is  it 
not  ?" 

"Yes,  very  !"  answered  Eleanor. 

"Yes,  very  !"  mimicked  Katharine,  striving  to  hide  her 
excitement  under  a  flippant  tongue.  "Upon  my  word, 
Avere  I  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  should  be  in  a  state  of  high  indigna- 
tion !  And  a  note,  too — to  me,  of  course.  Come,  will  you 
answer  it?  No?  Then  I  must.  Talk  to  Mr.  Wychnor 
the  while." 

She  went  away,  humming  a  gay  tune,  tearing  the  en- 


THE    OGILVIES.  343 

velope  to  pieces :  the  note  itself  she  crushed  in  her  hand 
for  the  moment,  to  be  afterward —  But  no  eye  followed 
her  to  that  inner  chamber.  Alas  !  every  human  being  has 
some  inner  chamber  of  heart  or  home  ! 

They  were  together  at  last,  Pliilip  and  Eleanor,  quite 
alone.  He  felt  the  fact  Avith  a  shuddering  fear — a  vague 
desire  to  fly ;  she,  with  a  faint  hope,  a  longing  to  implore 
him  to  tell  her  what  was  this  terrible  cloud  that  hung  be- 
tween them;  yet  neither  had  tlie  power  to  move.  She 
stood — her  fingers  beginning,  half  unconsciously,  to  arrange 
the  flowers  in  a  vase:  he,  sitting  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room,  whither  he  had  retired  at  the  first  mention  of  Lyne- 
don's  name,  neither  moved,  nor  looked,  nor  spoke.  Grad- 
ually his  hands  dropped  from  the  book  he  had  taken;  his 
face  grew  so  white,  so  fixed,  so  rigid,  that  it  might  have 
been  that  of  one  dead. 

At  the  sight  Eleanor  forgot  all  coldness,  bitterness,  pride 
— even  that  reserve  which  some  call  womanly,  which  makes 
a  girl  shrink  from  being  the  first  to  say  to  her  lover  "  For- 
give !"  She  remembered  only  that  they  had  loved  one  an- 
other— that  both  sufiered.  For  he  did  suffer ;  she  saw  it 
now — ay,  with  a  strange  gladness,  becanse  the  suffering 
showed  the  linsferins:  love.  The  hand  of  one  or  other  must 
rend  the  cloud  between  them,  or  it  miglit  darken  over  both 
their  lives  eternally.     Should  that  hand  be  hers  ? 

She  thought  a  moment,  and  then  prayed  !  She  was  one 
of  those  little  cliildren  who  fear  not  to  look  up  every  hour 
to  the  face  of  their  Father  in  heaven.  Then  she  crept 
noiselessly  beside  her  lover, 

"Philip!" 

He  heard  the  tremulous,  pleading  voice — saw  the  out- 
stretched hands  !  Forgetting  all,  he  would  have  clasped 
them,  have  sprung  forward  to  her,  but  that  he  saw  in  her 
bosom,  placed  by  her  unconsciously  in  the  agitation  of  the 
moment,  the  flowers  —  Lynedon's  flowers!  Then  came 
rushing  back  upon  the  young  man's  soul  its  love  and  its 
despair  —  despair  that  must  be  hidden  even  from  lier. 
What  right  had  he  to  breathe  one  tender  word,  even  to 


344  THE    OGILVIES. 

utter  one  cry  of  misery,  in  the  ear  ofliis  lost  beloved,  when 
she  was  another  man's  chosen  bride  ?  The  sti-uggle,  were 
it  unto  death,  must  be  concealed,  not  only  for  his  own 
sake,  but  for  hers. 

He  did  conceal  it.  He  took  her  hand — only  one — and 
then  let  it  go,  not  rudely,  but  softly,  though  the  chilling 
action  wounded  her  ten  times  more. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Thank  you  !  I  hope  you  will  be 
baj^py — indeed  I  do." 

"  Happy  !  Oh,  never,  never  in  this  woild  !"  And  she 
would  have  sunk,  but  that  he  rose  and  gave  her  his  chair. 
The  action,  which  seemed  as  one  of  mere  coui-tesy  to  any 
e very-day  friend,  went  to  her  heart  like  a  dagger. 

"  It  is  all  changed  with  us,  Philip ;  I  feel  it  is."  And  she 
burst  into  tears. 

He  felt  the  madness  rising  within  him,  and  turned  to  fly. 
But  he  could  not  go  and  leave  her  thus.  He  came  near 
once  more,  and  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  tone, 

"  I  have  been  unkind  ;  I  have  made  you  weep.  You  were 
always  gentle;  I  think  you  are  so  still.  But  I  Avill  not 
pain  you  any  more,  Eleanor — let  me  call  you  so  this  once, 
for  the  sake  of  the  past." 

"The  past !"  she  murmured. 

"  You  know  it  is  the  past — eternally  the  past.  Why  do 
you  seek  to  bring  it  back  again  ?  Forget  it,  blot  it  out, 
trample  on  it,  as  I  do."  And  his  voice  rose  with  the  wild 
passion  that  swelled  within  him;  but  it  sank  at  once  when 
he  met  her  upraised  eyes,  wherein  the  tears  were  frozen 
into  a  glassy  terror. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  cried.  "Let  me  say  farewell  now. 
You  will  be  happy;  and  I — I  shall  not  suffer  much — not 
much.     Do  not  think  of  me,  except  in  forgiveness — " 

"  Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  it  is  you  who  should  forgive  me  !" 
And  she  extended  her  loving  arms;  but  he  thrust  them 
back  with  a  half-frenzied  gesture. 

"  Eleanor,  I  thought  you  one  of  God's  angels ;  but  a 
demon  could  not  tempt  and  torture  me  thus.  Think  what 
we  once  were  to  one  another,  and  then  of  the  gulf  between 


THE    OGILVIES.  345 

US — a  wide,  fiery  gulf.  Do  you  not  see  it,  Eleanor  ?  I  can 
not  pass — I  dare  not.     Dare  you  '?" 

"  Yes." 

The  word  was  scarcely  framed  on  her  lips  when  Philip 
stopped  it  M'ith  a  cry. 

"  Yon  shall  not !  I  will  save  you  from  yourself  I  Avant 
no  gentleness,  no  pity  ;  only  let  me  go.     Loose  my  hand  !" 

But  she  held  it  still. 

His  tones  sank  to  entreaty.  "  Eleanor,  be  merciful !  let 
me  depart ;  I  can  be  nothing  to  you  now.  I  would  have 
been  every  thing,  but  it  is  too  late.  You  hold  me  still  ? 
How  can  you — how  dare  you — Avhen  there  is  one  Avho 
stands  between  us .  Ah  !  you  drop  my  hand  now  !  I 
knew  it !" 

He  stood  one  moment  looking  in  her  face.  Then  he 
cried,  passionately, 

"  Eleanor — mine  once,  now  mine  no  more — though  mis- 
ery, torture,  sin  itself,  are  between  us,  still,  for  the  last  time, 
come  !" 

He  opened  his  arms  and  strained  her  to  his  heart  so 
tightly  that  she  almost  shrieked.  Then  he  broke  away, 
and  tied  precipitately  from  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

Go— Ije  sure  of  my  love— by  that  treason  forgiven ; 
Of  my  prayers— by  the  blessings  they  bring  thee  from  heaven  ; 
Of  my  grief:— judge  tlie  length  of  the  sword  by  the  sheath's. 
By  the  silence  of  life— more  pathetic  than  death's. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

Eleanor  Ogilvie's  love  was  like  her  nature  —  calm, 
silent,  deep.  It  had  threaded  the  whole  course  of  her  life, 
not  as  a  bursting  torrent,  but  a  quiet,  ever-flowing  stream 
"  that  knew  no  fall."  When  the  change  came,  all  the  fresh- 
ness and  beauty  passed  from  lier  world,  leaving  it  arid  and 
dry.  She  made  no  outward  show  of  sorrow,  for  she  deemed 
it  alike  due  to  Philip  and  herself  that  whatever  had  come 
between  their  love  to  end  it  thus,  it  should  now  be  buried 


346  THE    OGILVIES. 

out  of  sight.  If  indeed  his  long  silence  had  but  too  truly 
foretold  his  change  toward  her,  and,  as  his  broken  words 
faintly  seemed  to  reveal,  some  other  love  had  driven  her 
from  liis  heart — or,  at  least,  some  new  bond  had  made  the 
very  memory  of  that  olden  pledge  a  sin — was  the  deserted 
betrothed  to  lay  bare  her  suiFerings,  to  be  a  mark  for  the 
pointed  linger  of  scornful  curiosity,  and  the  glance  of  in- 
trusive pity?  And,  still  more,  was  she  to  suffer  idle  tongues 
vo  bring  reproach  against  him  ?  Her  heart  folded  itself 
over  tliis  ten-ible  grief  as  close  as — nay,  closer  than  over 
its  precious  love,  even  as  the  cankered  leaf  gathers  its  fibres 
nearer  togetlier  to  hide  the  cause  which  eats  its  life  away. 
She  moved  about  the  house  at  Summerwood,  living  her 
outward  daily  life  of  gentle  tendance  on  the  desolate  and 
comjjlainingLadyOgilvie;  ever  the  same  ministering  angel, 
as  it  seemed  her  fortune  always  to  be,  toward  one  sufferer 
or  another.  And  so  it  is  with  some,  who  have  themselves 
already  drained  to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  affliction.  But  He 
who  sees  fit  to  lift  unto  their  lips  the  vinegar  and  the  gall, 
also  places  in  their  hands  the  honey  and  balm  which  they 
may  pour  out  to  others. 

At  times,  Avhen  in  the  night-time  her  pent-up  sorrow  ex- 
pended itself  in  bitterest  tears,  or  when  in  the  twilight  she 
sat  by  Lady  Ogilvie,  whose  complaints  were  then  hushed 
in  the  heavy  slumber  of  weakness  and  old  age,  Eleanor's 
brain  wearied  itself  Avith  conjectures  as  to  what  this  terri- 
ble mystery  could  be ;  this  "  gulf"  of  which  Philip  had 
spoken,  M'hich  neither  he  nor  she  must  dare  to  cross.  Ever 
and  anon  there  flashed  upon  her  memory  his  wild  tones 
and  gestures — his  half-maddened  looks.  They  effiiced  the 
tlioughts  which  had  once  brought  comfort  to  her.  Could 
it  be  with  him  as  with  other  men  of  Avhoni  she  had  heard 
• — that  his  face  and  his  writings  alike  gave  the  he  to  his 
heart? — without,  all  fair;  within,  all  foulness  and  sin? 
Could  it  be  that  her  own  pure  Philip  was  no  more,  and  in 
his  stead  was  an  erring,  world-stained  man,  to  whom  her 
sight  had  brought  back  remorsefully  the  innocent  days  of 
oki? 


THE    OGILVIES.  347 

*  Oh  no  !  not  that.  Let  me  believe  any  thing  but  that!" 
Jnoaned  Eleanor,  as  one  evening,  when  she  sat  all  alone  by 
Lady  Ogilvie's  couch,  these  thoughts  came,  wringing  her 
very  «oul !  "  Oh,  my  Philip  !  I  could  bear  that  you  should 
love  me  tio  more — that  another  should  stand  in  my  place, 
and  be  to  ^(ou  all  I  Avas,  and  all  I  hoped  to  be — but  let  me 
not  think  you  unworthy.  It  would  kill  me ;  I  feel  it 
would !"  j^iid  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  cushion 
of  the  sofa,  ttnd  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  agonizing  sobs. 
They  half  aiMised  Lady  Ogilvie,  who  moved,  and  said 
dreamily, 

"Katharine,  wiy  child!  What!  are  you  crying?  You 
shall  not  be  nmi-ried  unless — Ah  !  Eleanor,  it  is  you  !  I 
might  have  rei-aembered  that  it  Avas  not  Katharine — she 
never  comes  to  tiit  by  her  mother  now." 

The  sad  voice  went  to  Eleanor's  heart,  even  amidst  her 
own  sorrow.  Struggling,  she  repressed  all  utterance  of 
the  grief  which  her  aunt  had  not  yet  seen,  and  leaned  over 
her  tenderlv. 

"  Katharine  will  come  soon,  I  know.  I  am  sure  she 
would  be  here  to-morrow  if  she  thouglit  you  wished  for 
her.     Shall  Ave  send  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  no  right  uoaa'.  She  has  her  husband, 
and  her  friends,  and  her  gayeties.  She  hates  Summerwood 
too ;  she  told  me  she  did.  And  I  Avas  so  anxious  for  her 
marriage  with  Hugh,  that  she  might  still  live  here,  and  no 
one  might  come  to  part  my  child  from  me.  I  did  not  think 
she  Avould  haA'e  gone  aAvay  of  her  own  accord." 

Eleanor,  as  she  stood  by  Lady  Ogilvie's  couch,  thought 
of  her  own  motlier,  now  safe  in  heaven,  from  Avhom,  Avhile 
life  lasted,  neither  fate  nor  an  erring  AA'ill  had  ever  taken 
away  the  clasp  of  a  daughter's  loving  arms.  And  Avhile, 
strong  through  the  dividing  shadoAV  of  death — of  interven- 
ing years — of  other  bonds  and  other  griefs — shone  the 
memory  of  this  first,  holiest  love,  she  lifted  her  heart  Avith 
thankful  joy  that  her  Avork  had  been  fulfilled.  From  the 
eternal  shore,  the  mother  now  perchance  stretched  forth, 
to  the  struggling  and  suflering  one,  her  spirit-arms,  mur- 


348  THE    OGILVIES. 

muring,  "  My  child — my  true  and  duteous  child — I  wait 
for  thee  !     Be  patient,  and  endure  !" 

Lady  Ogilvie  felt  her  hand  taken  silently.  What  word 
of  consolation  could  have  broken  in  upon  the  deserted 
parent's  tears?  But  the  touch  seemed  to  yield  comfort. 
"You  are  a  kind,  dear  girl,  Eleanor;  I  am  very  glad  to 
have  you  here.     I  think  you  do  me  good.     Thank  you  !" 

Eleanor  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek,  and  was  then  about  to 
sit  down  by  the  couch  on  a  little  ottoman,  when  Lady 
Ogilvie  prevented  her. 

"  Not  there — not  there.  Katharine  always  liked  to  sit 
beside  me  thus.  She  does  not  care  for  it  now  ;  but  no  one 
shall  have  Katharine's  place  —  no,  no  !"  And  the  poor 
mother  again  began  to  weep. 

Eleanor  took  her  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa  in  compas- 
sionate silence. 

"Dear  aunt,"  she  Avhispered  at  length,  "your  Katharine 
loves  you  as  much  as  ever.  You  must  not  think  her  lost 
to  you  because  she  is  married." 

"Ah!  that  is  what  people  say.  I  once  said  the  same 
myself  to  a  mother  at  her  child's  wedding.  Let  me  see — 
who  was  it  ?"  and  her  wandering  thoughts  seemed  eagerly 
to  catch  at  the  subject.  "  Yes,  I  remember  now,  it  was  on 
Bella's  wedding-day,  and  I  was  talking  to  her  husband's 
mother.  Poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne  !  She  made  me  feel  for 
her,  for  she,  too,  had  one  child — a  son,  I  think.  She  said  he 
must  bring  his  wife  home,  because  she  could  not  bear  to 
part  with  him.     I  wonder  if  she  ever  did  !" 

"  Yes  !"  said  Eleanor,  softly, 

"Then  her  son  is  as  unkind  as  my  Katharine.  He  for- 
gets his  mother.  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  She  is  left  all 
alone,  like  me !" 

"  Not  so ;  far  lonelier,"  said  Eleanor's  low  voice.  "  Her 
son  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  dead  !"  cried  Lady  Ogilvie ;  "  and  I  have  still 
my  Katharine  well  and  happy,  God  forgive  me  !  I  will 
never  murmur  any  more."  And  she  lay  back  in  silence 
for  many  minutes.     Then  she  said, 


THE    OGILVIES.  349 

"  Eleanor,  I  should  like  to  hear  more  about  that  poor 
mother.     Where  did  you  learn  these  news  of  her?" 

"  I  saw  her  when  I  was  in  London,  three  weeks  since," 
answered  Eleanor,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  remembering  what 
years  of  sorrow  she  had  lived  in  tliose  three  weeks. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Penny thorne !  I  wish  I  could  talk  to  her. 
Do  you  think  she  would  come  and  see  me?  It  might  do 
her  good." 

Eleanor  gladly  seconded  the  plan  ;  and  surely  she  might 
be  forsciven  if  there  flashed  across  her  mind  the  thouu'ht 
that  through  this  channel,  might  come  tidings  of  Philip 
Wychnor. 

A  few  days  more,  and  she  had  succeeded  in  accomplish- 
ing her  aunt's  desire.  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  Avondering  and 
shrinking,  crept  silently  into  the  room,  scarcely  believing 
that  the  sickly  woman  who  at  her  entrance  half  arose  from 
the  couch  could  be  the  tall  and  stately  Lady  Ogilvie.  Still 
more  surprised  was  she  when  Katharine's  mother,  glancing 
at  her  black  garments,  and  then  for  an  instant  regarding 
her  pale,  meek  face,  grief-worn  but  calm,  laid  her  head  on 
Mrs.  Pennythonie's  shoulder  and  burst  into  tears. 

Then  to  the  mother  of  the  Dead  came  that  new  strength 
and  dignity  born  of  her  sorrow ;  and  she  who  had  given 
her  one  lamb  from  her  bosom  to  be  sheltered  in  the  eternal 
fold,  spoke  comforting  words  unto  her  whose  grief  was  for 
the  living  gone  astray.  Tliey  talked  not  long  of  Katharine, 
but  passed  on  to  the  subject  that  was  now  rarely  absent 
from  Mrs.  Penny thorne's  lips,  and  never  from  her  heart, 
though  it  dwelt  on  both  wnth  a  holy  calmness,  and  with- 
out pain.  She  spoke  of  Leigh — of  all  that  was  good  and 
beautiful  in  himself,  of  all  that  was  hopeful  in  his  death. 
And  amid  the  simple  and  touching  story  of  his  illness  and 
his  going  away — she  spoke  of  the  last  parting  by  no  harsher 
word — she  continually  uttered,  and  ever  with  deep  tender- 
ness and  thankful  blessings,  one  name — the  name  of  Philip 
Wychnor. 

Half  hidden  in  the  window,  Eleanor  listened  to  the  tale 
which  the  grateful  mother  told.     She  heard  of  Philip's 


350  THE    OGILVIES. 

struggles,  of  his  noble  patience,  of  those  qualities  which 
had  aAvakened  in  poor  Leigh  such  strong  attachment,  and 
afterward  of  the  almost  womanly  tenderness  which  had 
smoothed  the  sick  boy's  pillow,  filling  him  with  joy  and 
peace  even  to  the  last.  And  then  Mrs.  Pennythorne  spoke 
of  the  gentle  kindness  which  had  since  led  Philip,  prosper- 
ous and  courted  as  he  was,  to  visit  her  daily  in  her  loneli- 
ness Avith  comfort  and  cheer. 

"  My  dear  boy  always  said  that  Mr. Wychnor  talked  like 
an  angel,"  continued  Mrs.  Pennythoi-ne.  "And  so  he  does. 
Night  and  day  I  pray  Heaven  to  reward  him  for  the  bless- 
ings he  has  brought  to  me  and  mine.  And  though  he  is 
sadly  changed  of  late,  and  I  can  sec  there  is  more  in  his 
heart  than  even  /know  of,  yet  his  words  are  like  an  angel's 
still.     May  God  comfort  him,  and  bless  him  evermore  !" 

"Amen  !"  was  the  faint  echo,  no  louder  than  a  breath. 
And  shrouded  from  sight,  Eleanor,  with  streaming,  uplifted 
eyes  and  clasped  hands,  poured  forth  her  passionate  thanks- 
giving for  the  worthiness  of  him  she  loved.  "  He  is  not 
mine — he  never  may  be  ;  but  he  is  yet  all  I  believed — • 
good,  pure,  noble.  My  Philip,  my  true  Philip,  God  bless 
thee !  we  shall  yet  stand  side  by  side  in  his  heaven,  and 
look  upon  each  other's  face  without  a  tear." 

She  was  still  in  the  recess  when  Mrs.  Pennythorne  en- 
tered it,  her  usual  timid  stejas  seeming  more  reluctant  than 
ordinary. 

"Your  aunt  would  like  to  sleep  a  little,  Miss  Ogilvie,  so 
she  has  sent  me  to  you." 

Eleanor  roused  herself,  and  spoke  warmly  and  gratefully 
to  the  little  quiet  woman  who  loved  Philip  so  well. 

"  Indeed,  if  it  has  done  Lady  Ogilvie  any  good,  I  am 
sure  I  am  quite  glad  I  came,"  answered  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 
"Though  it  was  a  struggle,  as  you  say,  for  I  hardly  ever 
go  out  now ;"  and  a  faint  sigh  passed  the  lips  of  Leigh's 
mother.  "But  ray  husband  persuaded  me,  and  —  Mr. 
Wychnor  too." 

Here  she  hesitated,  and  glanced  doubtfully  at  Eleanor, 
as  though  she  had  something  more  to  say,  but  waited  for 


THE    OGILVIES.  351 

a  little  encouragement.  It  came  not,  however ;  and  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  conquering  her  shyness,  went  on :  "  Mr. 
Wychuor  Avas  very  kind ;  he  brought  me  here — almost  to 
the  park  gates.  When  he  said  good-by,  he  told  me  he  was 
going  abroad  for  a  long  time."  Eleanor  started.  "You 
will  forgive  my  talking  about  him  thus,  for  I  imagine  Mr 
Wychnor  is  a  friend  of  your  lamily,  Miss  Ogilvie.  Indeed" 
— and,  making  a  sudden  effort,  Mrs.  Pennythorne  fulfilled 
her  mission — "  he  asked  me  to  give  you  this  letter  when  I 
found  you  alone.  And  now  I  will  go  and  sit  by  your  aunt 
until  she  awakes,"  hastily  added  she. 

She  had  said  all  she  knew,  and  she  had  guessed  but  little 
more,  being  a  woman  of  small  penetration,  and  less  curiosi- 
ty. But  no  woman,  worthy  the  name,  could  have  seen  the 
violent  agitation  which  Eleanor  vainly  strove  to  repress 
without  gliding  away,  so  that,  whatever  unknown  sorrow 
there  was,  it  might  have  free  leave  to  flow. 

Philip's  letter  ran  thus  : 

"I  pray  you  to  forgive  all  I  said  and  did  that  night;  I 
was  almost  mad  !  It  is  not  for  me  to  occasion  you  any 
suffering,  but  you  tried  me  so  bitterly  —  wherefore,  I  can 
not  tell.  Knowing  what  we  once  were  to  one  another, 
and  the  bar  there  is  between  us  now,  I  pray — and  you 
yourself  must  say  amen  to  my  prayer — that  on  this  side 
heaven  we  may  never  meet  again  ! 

"I  waited  until  these  lines  could  reach  you  safely.  I 
have  written  no  name,  lest  any  contrary  chance  might  oc- 
casion you  pain.  You  see  I  think  of  you  even  now.  Fare- 
well !  farewell !" 

And  tliis  was  the  end — the  end  of  all !  No  more  love — 
no  more  hope — not  even  the  comfort  of  sorrow.  His  words 
seemed  to  imply  that  regret  itself  was  sin.  The  unknown 
bar  between  them  was  eternal.  lie  said  so,  and  it  must 
be  true.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  came  upon  Eleanor  the 
terrible  darkness — through  which  Philij)  had  once  passed 
— the  darkness  of  a  world  where  love  has  been,  is  not,  and 
will  be  no  more  forever  !  The  man,  with  his  strong,  great 
soul,  nearer  perchance  to  Heaven,  and  so  interpenetrated 

Q 


352  THE    OGILVIES. 

with  the  divine  that  the  earthly  lielcl  but  a  secondary  place 
therein — the  man  struggled  and  conquered.  The  weaker, 
tenderer  woman,  whose  very  religion  was  Eve-like,  "  for 
God — in  A«?/?,"  sank  beneath  that  mighty  woe. 

A  little  while  longer  Eleanor  strove  against  her  misery. 
At  morning  she  rose,  and  at  evening  she  lay  down,  mechan- 
ically following  the  round  of  daily  occupation.  At  last  one 
night  she  entered  her  chamber — tried  to  collect  her  wan- 
dei-ing  thoughts,  so  that  in  some  measure  she  might  "  set 
her  house  in  order,"  and  then  laid  her  Aveary  head  on  the 
pillow,  with  a  consciousness  that  she  would  lift  it  up  no 
more. 

All  throuo-h  the  night  it  seemed  a's  though  a  leaden  hand 
pressed  heavily  on  her  brow ;  she  did  not  writhe  beneath 
it,  for  it  felt  cold,  calm,  like  the  touch  of  Death  upon  the 
throbbing  veins,  saving  "Peace — be  still!"  In  the  dark- 
ness  she  saw,  even  with  closed  eyes,  the  shining  of  olden 
faces — images  from  those  early  days  when  the  one  face  had 
never  yet  crossed  her  dreams.  Clearer  than  all — its  sor- 
rowful patience  of  earth  transmuted  into  a  heavenly  calm- 
ness— she  beheld  her  mother's  loving  smile  ;  nay,  breaking 
through  the  silence,  her  bewildered  fancy  almost  distin- 
guished the  voice,  fiiint  as  Avhen  her  ear  drank  its  last  ac- 
cents ere  they  were  stilled  for  eternity,  "My  child — my 
dear  child!" 

"Mother,  mother,  my  work  is  done.  Let  me  come  to 
thee  !"  was  Eleanor's  low,  yearning  cry. 

And  with  that  last  memory  of  the  solemn  past  shutting 
out  all  the  anguish  of  the  present,  she  passed  into  the  wide, 
honor-peopled  world  of  delirium. 


THE    OGILVIES.  353 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

For  a  fearful  time 
We  can  keep  down  these  floodgates  of  the  heart ; 
But  we  must  draw  them  some  time,  or  'twill  bm-st 
Like  sand  this  brave  embankment  of  the  breast, 
And  drain  itself  to  dry  death.    When  pride  thaws, 
Look  for  floods. — Philip  Bailey. 

We  will  pass  from  this  scene  of  sorrow  and  darkness 
into  another  that  seems  all  sunshine.  Yet  if,  looking  on 
these  two  phases  of  life,  we  are  fain  to  mnse  doubtfully  on 
the  strano-e  contrasts  of  human  fate,  let  us  remember  that 
the  clouds  furling  away  oft  leaA-e  behind  them  coolness  and 
dew,  while  the  sunbeams  may  grow  into  a  dazzling  glare, 
blinding  and  scorching  wherever  they  rest. 

Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  Katharine  Ogilvie  basked 
in  the  new  glory  which  had  burst  upon  her  world.  Paul 
Lynedon's  influence  was  upon  her  and  around  her  Avhercvcr 
she  moved.  It  was  the  olden  dream,  the  dream  of  girlhood, 
renewed  with  tenfold  power.  All  her  artificial  self  fell  from 
her  like  a  garment,  and  she  stood  before  this  man— this 
world-jaded,  almost  heartless  man — a  creature  formed  out 
of  the  long-past  ideal  of  his  youth — beautiful,  and  most 
true,  whether  for  good  or  evil.  There  was  no  falseness  in 
her;  and  that  which  had  gathered  over  Paul  Lynedon 
crumbled  into  dust  and  ashes  before  the  sun-gleam  of  her 
eyes.  His  wavering  nature  was  subdued  by  the  energy 
of  her  own.  Sisera-like,  "  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell ;" 
struck  down  by  the  fierce  might  of  a  love  whose  very  crime 
and  hopelessness  bound  him  with  closer  chains.  He  could 
not  struggle  against  them — he  did  not  try.  He  would  now 
have  given  half  of  his  wasted,  hollow,  thoughtless  existence 
to  purchase  one  day,  one  hour,  of  this  full,  strong,  real  life 
that  now  thrilled  his  being,  even  though  it  coursed  through 
every  vein  like  molten  fire.     He  would  have  laid  himself 


354  THE    OGILVIES. 

down,  body  aud  soul,  for  her  feet  to  trample  on,  rather  than 
free  himself  from  the  spell  wherewith  she  bomid  him,  or 
pass  from  her  presence  and  be  haunted  by  her  terrible  pow- 
er no  more. 

And  this  passion  was  so  strong  Avith  him  that  it  found 
no  utterance.  He  sank  dumb  before  her — in  her  sight  he 
was  humble  as  a  little  child.  His  lips,  which  to  many  an- 
:.>ther  woman  had  framed  the  language  of  idle  compliment, 
or  of  still  softer  and  more  beguiling  tenderness,  could  not 
breathe  one  word  that  might  startle  the  i)roud  ear  of  Kath- 
arine Ogilvie,  But  though  this  mad,  erring  love  was  never 
uttered,  she  knew  it  well.  The  knowledge  dawned  upon 
her  by  slow  degrees;  and  she  felt  that  too  late — oh,  fear- 
fully too  late  ! — the  dream  of  her  youth  had  been  fulfilled, 
and  that  she  was  loved  even  as  she  had  loved. 

What  a.  future  lay  before  the  hapless  wife  M'hose  rash 
and  frenzied  tongue,  in  taking  the  false  vow,  had  given  the 
lie  to  her  heart !  A  whole  life  of  feigning  ;  year  after  year 
to  wear  the  mask  of  affection,  or  at  least  of  duty ;  to  dis- 
play the  mocking  semblance  of  a  happy  home — worse  than 
all,  to  smile  answeringly  upon  the  unsuspecting  face  that 
was — must  he  forever  at  her  side,  haunting  like  an  accusing 
spirit  the  wife  who  loved  another  man  dearer  than  her  hus- 
band. This  must  be  her  doom,  even  if,  still  guiltless,  she 
trod  her  heart  into  ashes,  and  walked  on  with  a  serene  eye, 
and  dumb,  smiling  lip.     But  if  otherwise — 

Katharine  never  dreamed  of  that.  Blinded,  she  rushed 
to  the  very  brink  of  the  abyss ;  but  there  was  a  strong 
purity  in  her  heart  still.  She  did  not  once  see  the  yawning 
gulf  before  her,  for  her  eyes  were  turned  bej'ond  it — turned 
toward  the  pure,  dream-like  love,  the  guiding-star  of  her 
life,  Avhich  by  its  unrequited  loneliness  had  become  so  spir- 
itualized that  the  taint  of  earthly  passion  had  scarcely 
touched  it  even  now. 

It  sometimes  chances  that  the  realities  of  wedded  life, 
and  the  calm  peace  of  household  ties,  have  power  to  con- 
quer or  stifle  the  remembrance  of  the  deepest  former  love. 
But  Kathai'ine  was  so  young  that,  although  a  wife,  slie  had 


THE    OGILVIES,  355 

a  girl's  heart  still ;  Jiiid  that  heart  her  husband  never 
sought  to  win  from  its  romance  to  the  still  afiection  ot 
home.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  trial  was  beyond  his  power ; 
and  so,  content  with  the  guarding  circlet  on  her  finger,  he 
desired  not  from  her  the  only  thing  which  can  make  the 
niai-riage-bond  inviolate — a  wedded  heart.  Sometimes,  for 
days  and  weeks  together,  he  would  go  away,  leaving  her 
to  such  solitude  that  it  almost  seemed  a  dream,  her  having 
been  a  wife  at  all. 

Another  tie  was  there  wanting — another  safeguard  in 
this  periloi;s,  loveless  home.  No  child  had  come  with  its 
little  twining  arms  to  draw  together  the  two  divided 
hearts,  and  concentrate  in  one  parental  bond  the  wander- 
ing love  of  both.  Often  when  she  paced  her  lonely  home, 
which  her  husband  now  found  far  less  attractive  than 
Sumraerwood,  Katharine  shuddered  at  the  delicious  poison 
which  drop  by  drop  was  falling  into  her  life's  cup,  convert- 
ing even  the  faint  afiection  she  yet  felt  for  Hugh  into  a 
feeling  almost  like  hatred.  And  then  the  wife,  terrified  at 
the  change  that  was  stealing  over  her,  dashed  more  and 
more  into  that  wild  whirl  which  people  call  "  society." 

Day  after  day,  rarely  with  any  arranged  plan,  but  by 
some  chance  coincidence  springing  from  the  combined  will 
of  both,  she  and  Paul  Lynedon  met.  Every  morning  when 
she  rose,  Katharine  felt  that  she  was  sure  by  some  hap  or 
other  to  see  him  ere  niglit.  Now,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  knew  what  it  is  to  he  loved ;  to  feel  encompassed 
continualh',  in  absence  or  presence,  with  the  thoughts  of 
another;  to  live  with  every  day,  evciy  hour,  tlireaded  by 
those  electric  links  of  sympathy  which,  through  all  inter- 
vening distance,  seem  to  convey  to  one  heart  the  conscious- 
ness of  another's  love.  Around  and  about  her  path  wove 
these  airy  fetters,  encircling  her  in  a  web  through  which 
she  could  not  ])ass.  She  felt  it  binding  her  closer  and 
closer;  but  it  seemed  drawn  by  the  hand  of  destiny.  A 
little  while  her  conscience  wrestled,  then  she  became  still 
and  struggled  no  more. 

Against  these  two  erring  ones  tlie  world's  tongue  had 


356  THE    OGILYIES. 

not  yet  been  lifted.  With  others,  as  well  as  with  Katha- 
rine herself,  Paul  Lynedon  set  a  watch  upon  his  lips  and 
actions.  He  who  had  worn  carelessly  and  openly  the 
chains  of  many  a  light  fancy,  now  buried  this  strong  real 
love — the  only  real  love  of  his  life — in  the  very  depths  of 
his  heart.  Besides,  his  passion  had  sprung  up,  budded, 
and  blossomed  in  a  space  so  short  that  the  world  had  no 
time  to  note  its  growth,  and  probably  would  not  have  be- 
lieved in  its  existence.     But 

Love  counts  time  by  heart-throbs,  and  not  years. 

Mrs.  Lancaster — gossiping,  light-tongued  Mrs.  Lancaster 
— visited  her  "  dear,  talented,  charming  friend,  Mrs.  Hugh 
Ogilvie,"  as  frequently  as  ever,  without  seeing  the  haunt- 
ing shadow  that,  near  or  distant,  followed  Katharine  Avher- 
ever  she  moved.  Lideed,  the  lady  often  made  Paul  writhe 
beneath  her  hints  and  innuendoes  respecting  his  various 
flames,  past  and  present,  which  she  had  discovered — or  at 
least  thought  she  had. 

One  morning  she  amused  herself  thus  during  the  whole 
of  a  long  visit  at  which  she  had  met  Lynedon  at  Mrs.  Ogil- 
vie's.  Paul  bore  the  jests  restlessly  at  first,  then  indifter- 
ently ;  for  in  the  calm  proud  eye  and  slightly-curled  lip  of 
the  sole  face  he  ever  watched,  he  saw  that  no  credence  was 
given  to  the  idle  tale.  Katharine  knew  now — and  the 
knowledge  came  mingled  with  remorse  and  despair — that 
she  herself  was  the  only  woman  who  had  ever  had  power 
to  sway  Paul  Lynedon's  soul. 

The  last  Jdstoriette  which  Mrs.  Lancaster  fixed  upon  for 
the  delectation  of  her  former  favorite  was  the  suspected 
love  episode  with  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  She  continued  the  jest 
even  further  than  she  believed  in  it  herself,  as  she  observed, 
with  malicious  pleasure,  that  Paul  seemed  more  than  usu- 
ally sensitive  on  this  point. 

"I  always  thought,  Mr.  Lynedon,  that  there  was  some 
deep  mystery  in  your  sudden  escapade  to  the  Continent, 
and  a  friend  of  yours  at  last  enlightened  me  a  little  on  the 
subject.     Confess,  now,  as  we  are  quite  alone — for  Mrs. 


THE    OGILVIES.  357 

Ogilvie's  sisterly  ears  need  not  listen  unless  she  chooses — 
confess  that  your  memory  treasured  long  a  certain  visit  at 
Summerwood,  and  that  the  meeting  in  London  is  not  en- 
tirely accidental,  any  more  than  was  the  rencounter  at 
Florence." 

Paul  Lynedon  might  have  laughed  olF  the  accusation, 
but  that  Katharine's  eyes  Avere  upon  him.  He  answered, 
earnestly, 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  I  am  not  accountable  for  any 
imputed  motives.  My  pleasure  in  Miss  Ogilvie's  society 
is  not  lessened  by  the  fact  that  I  have  always  owed  it  to 
chance  alone.  Most  truly  do  I  bear,  and  shall  bear  all  my 
life"  (his  tone  grew  lower  and  more  earnest  still),  "the 
memory  of  that  week  at  Summerwood." 

The  dark  eyes  turned  away,  though  not  until  he  had 
seen  the  gleam  of  rapture  which  kindled  them  into  dazzling 
light. 

"  But  the  rumor  from  Italy,  wliich  made  us  hope  to  see 
a  Mrs.  Lynedon  ere  long — how  can  you  explain  that  ?"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Lancaster,  who,  in  resigning,  perforce,  the  char- 
acter of  a  "  Avoman  of  genius,"  had  assumed  that  of  the 
most  annoying  and  pertinacious  gossip  who  ever  sinned 
against  good  sense  and  good  breeding. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  with  some 
dignity.  "Jiy  sister'''' — (since  her  marriage,  Katharine  had 
ever  most  punctiliously  used  this  title,  thus  gratifying  at 
once  her  ov>'n  real  aifection  for  Eleanor,  and  showing  in  the 
world's  sight  that  outward  respect  which  she  always  paid 
to  her  husband) — "  ray  sister  never  met  him  when  abroad. 
Is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Lynedon  ?" 

With  that  look  meeting  his,  Paul  for  his  life's  worth 
could  not  have  uttered  a  falsehood. 

"  I  had,  indeed,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Ogilvie  and 
Mrs.  Breynton  at  Florence,  but — " 

His  further  hurried  explanation  was  stopped  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  messenger  from  Summerwood,  bringing  tidings 
of  Eleanor's  severe  illness.  ]\Irs.  Lancaster,  who  always 
(Spread  her  wings  and  fled  away  before  the  least  cloud  of 


358  THE    OGILVIES. 

adversity,  made  a  liasty  disappearance.  Katharine,  start* 
led,  and  touched  witli  self-rejiroach  for  the  neglect  which 
for  weeks  past  had  made  her  forget  all  olden  ties  in  one 
absorbing  dream,  was  left  alone — aione,  save  tor  the  one 
ever-haunting  friend  who  now  approached  her. 

She  started  up  almost  angrily;  foi  the  images  of  Hugh 
and  Hugh's  dying  sister  were  then  present  to  the  con- 
science-stricken wife.  "You  here,Mr.  Lynedon!  I  thought 
you  had  departed  with  Mrs.  Lancaster!" 

"How  could  I  go  and  leave  you  thus?"  said  Paul, softly. 
"Remember, it  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  v/ith 
yon  in  your  sorrow." 

Katharine  looked  up,  to  meet  the  same  face  which  years 
before  had  bent  over  tlie  trembling,  weeping  child ;  the 
same  look,  the  same  tone,  j-et  fraught  with  a  tenderness 
deeper  a  thousand-fold.  She  saw  it,  and  a  strange  terror 
came  over  her:  she  closed  her  eyes;  she  dared  not  look 
again.  Pressing  back  all  the  memories  that  were  throng- 
ing madly  to  her  heart,  she  arose,  saying, 

"  That  is  long  ago — very  long  ago,  Mr.  Lynedon.  I  must 
iiov/  think,  not  of  the  past,  but  the  present.  My  husband" 
— and  she  desperately  tried  to  strengthen  herself  with  the 
word — "  my  husband  is  from  home;  I  will  go  to  Summer- 
wood  at  once  myself" 

"It  is  a  long  distance.  If  I  were  permitted  to  accom- 
pany— at  least,  to  follow  you  in  a  few  hours,"  lie  added,  cor- 
recting himself, "  it  would  give  me  real  liappiness.  Indeed, 
my  own  anxiety — " 

Katharine  turned  round  suddenly  with  a  doubtful,  pen- 
etrating glance.     Lynedon  perceived  it. 

"  You  do  not — you  will  not  believe  that  idle  tale  ?  Yoxi 
can  not  think  that  I— that  I  ever  did  or  ever  shall  love  any 
woman  living,  save — "  He  paused  abruptly — then  eagerly 
caught  her  hand. 

The  burning  crimson  rushed  to  Katharine's  very  brow. 
A  moment,  and  she  drew  her  hand  away ;  not  hurriedly, 
but  with  a  cold,  haughty  gesture.  She  remembered  stiil 
that  she  was  Hugh's  wife. 


THE    OGILVIES.  359 

"  Mr.  Lynedon,  you  misinterpret  my  thoughts ;  this  con- 
fidence was  quite  unnecessary,  and  I  believe  unasked.  Let 
us  change  the  subject." 

He  shranlc  abashed  and  humbled  before  her.  Katharine 
ruled  him  with  an  irresistible  sway,  chaining  even  the  tor- 
rent of  passion  that  was  ready  to  burst  forth.  And  she — 
loving  as  she  did — had  strength  thus  to  seal  down  his  love, 
that  he  should  not  utter  it. 

Soon  afterward  Paul  Lynedon  quitted  her  presence.  She 
pjirted  from  him  with  a  few  words  of  gentle  but  distant 
kindness,  which  instantly  lighted  up  his  whole  countenance 
with  joy.  But  when  he  was  gone  she  sank  back  exhaust- 
ed, and  lay  for  a  long  time  almost  senseless.  Again  and 
again  there  darted  through  her  side  that  sharp  arrowy  pain, 
which  she  had  first  felt  after  the  night  when  a  few  chance 
words — false  words  as  she  now  believed — had  swept  away 
all  hope  and  love  forever  from  her  life.  Of  late  this  pain 
had  been  more  frequent  and  intense  ;  and  now,  as  she  lay 
alone,  pressing  her  hand  upon  lier  heart,  every  pulse  of 
which  she  seemed  to  feel  and  hear,  a  thought  came— solemn, 
startling  ! — the  thought  that  even  now,  upon  her,  so  full  of 
life,  of  youth,  and  youth's  wildest  passions,  might  be  creep- 
ing a  dark  shadow  from  the  unseen  world. 

For  an  instant  she  ti'embled  ;  and  then  the  thought  came 
again,  bearing  with  it  a  flood  of  joy.  Lifting  a  veil  between 
her  and  the  dreaded  future, Katharine  saw  a  shadowy  hand; 
she  would  have  fallen  down  and  blessed  it,  even  though  it 
were  the  hand  of  death, 

"It  must  be  so,"  she  said  softly  to  herself;  "I  shall  die 
— I  shall  die !"  and  her  tone  rose  into  a  desperate  joy. 
"  This  long,  fearful  life  will  not  be.  I  shall  pass  away  and 
escape.  Oh  rest ! — oh  peace  ! — come  soon — soon  !  Let  me 
sleep  an  eternal  sleep !  Let  me  feel  no  more — suffer  no 
more !" 

Poor  strufrsrlino-  one — stretching  thine  arms  from  life's 
desolate  shore  to  the  wide,  dark  ocean  beyond — is  there  no 
mercy  in  earth  or  heaven  for  thee?  Thy  lips  now  diain 
the  cup  thine  own  hands  lifted;  yet,  if  the  sutfcrinn  rii'-lit- 

O  2 


860  THE    OGILVIES. 

eous  needeth  comj)assion,  surely  the  stricken  sinner  needetl» 
more. 

Ye  wlio,  untempted,  walk  secure,  with  Levite  step  and 
averted  face,  noting  carefully  how  by  his  own  vain  folly  or 
wickedness  your  weaker  brother  "fell  among  thieves," 
should  ye  not  rather  come  with  the  merciful  touch,  the 
cleansing  water,  and  then  the  oil  and  wine,  that  the  erring 
one  may  be  saved,  and  the  heavenward  road  receive  one 
strengthened,  hopeful  traveler  more  ? 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 


"Ah  !  why,"  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 

"  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge — 

Wliy  do  not  these  prevail,  for  human  life 

To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 

Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 

Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 

To  grant  or  be  received!" — "Wordsworth. 

Katharine  Ogilvie  reached  Summerwood  when  it  was 
almost  nio-ht.  Over  all  the  house  there  seemed  a  stillness 
and  hush,  as  in  a  dwelling  where  there  is  one  life,  a  precious 
life,  hanging  on  a  thread.  Stealthy,  noiseless  footsteps — 
doors  opened  and  closed  without  a  sound — loud  voices 
softened  into  anxious  whispers  —  all  showed  how  much 
Eleanor  was  beloved.  Sir  Robert,  his  parliamentary  pa- 
pers and  eternal  blue-books  lying  unopened,  sat  talking 
Avith  the  physician,  and  often  glancing  sorrowfully  at  the 
neglected  tea-equipage,  behind  which  he  missed  the  gentle 
moonlight  smile  of  his  niece,  even  more  than  the  long-ab- 
sent one  of  his  ever-ailing  wife.  Lady  Ogilvie,  unable  to 
quit  her  couch,  lay  with  her  door  opened,  listening  to  every 
sound.  Between  her  and  the  sick-chamber  there  moved 
continually,  with  light  steps  and  mourning  garments,  a  fig- 
are  so  unol)trusive  that  Katharine  did  not  for  some  time 
.lotice  it. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pennytliorne. 

She  had  come  in  by  chance  the  day  after  poor  Eleanor 


THE    OGILVIES.  361 

had  laid  down  her  weary  head — perhaps  forever.  Tlien 
toward  the  sick  girl  the  heart  of  the  childless  mother 
yearned.  She  became  her  nurse,  never  quitting  her  except 
to  speak  a  few  words  of  comfort  to  the  terrified  and  grief 
stricken  Lady  Ogilvie.  In  truth,  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  meek 
and  quiet  as  she  was,  had  become  the  guiding  spirit  in  this 
house  of  sickness.  But  she  crept  into  her  place  so  gradu- 
ally, and  sustained  it  so  imperceptibly,  that  no  one  ever 
thought  of  the  fact;  and  even  Lady  Ogilvie  did  not  speak 
of  her  until  she  appeared,  suddenly  and  silently,  to  lead 
Katharine  to  her  sister's  room. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  had  at  first  shrunk  both  in  timidity 
and  dislike  from  the  stylish  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  the  neglectful 
daughter  of  whom  she  had  heard.  But  this  feeling  passed 
away  when  she  saw  how  subdued  Katharine's  manner  was, 
and  with  what  trembling  steps  she  moved  to  Eleanor's 
chamber. 

"  And  you  have  tended  her  night  and  day — you,  almost 
a  stranger!"  said  Katharine.  "IIow  good  you  are  !  while 
I — "  She  stopped  ;  for  the  remorse  which  had  smitten  her 
heart  at  the  sight  of  her  long-forsaken  mother  was  renewed 
when  she  beheld  the  sick,  almost  dying  girl,  who,  from  the 
triple  ties  of  marriage,  kindred,  and  afi'ection,  might  well 
have  claimed  from  her  a  sister's  care. 

Eleanor  was  sitting  up  in  bed ;  her  arms  extended,  and 
her  eyes — those  once  beautiful,  calm  eyes — glittering  and 
burning  with  fever.  She  began  to  talk  in  quick,  shaip, 
ringing  accents. 

"Ah  !  you  have  been  to  fetch  her  ;  I  thought  you  would. 
I  could  not  die  without  seeing  Mrs.  Breynton.  Tell  her 
she  need  not  fear  meeting  him — he  will  not  come.  Philip 
will  not  come — never  more — never  more  !" 

"  She  often  talks  in  this  way,"  whispered  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne;  "and  so  I  am  glad  that  no  one  is  with  her  except 
myself.  I  do  not  know  any  thing,  but  I  feel  sure  that  she 
and  poor  Mr.  Wychnor — " 

Low  as  the  tone  was,  the  words  reached  Eleanor's  car. 
She  turned  quickly  round. 


362  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  What !  do  you  speak  about  him,  Mrs.  Breyntou  ? — foi* 
I  know  you  are  Mrs.  Breynton,  though  you  look  different 
• — younger,  and  so  beautiful !  Ah  !  perhaps  you  have  died, 
and  so  become  a  spirit  like  my  mother !  But  did  you  not 
pray  her  to  forgive  you  for  breaking  her  poor  child's  heart? 
We  will  not  talk  about  it.  Still,  it  was  cruel  of  you  to 
part  my  Philip  i'rom  me." 

"Philip  again!"  said  Katharine,  softly.  "Ah!  I  see  it 
all  now — I  guessed  it  long.  Is  it  even  so  with  lier  too! 
Eleanor,  dearest !"    And  she  spoke  very  tenderly. 

"Who  calls  me  dearest?  He  used,  once,  but  he  will 
never  call  me  so  again.  She  kept  me  from  him  until  his 
love  has  changed.  I  shall  never  be  Philip's  Avife  now.  It 
is  all  your  work, Mrs.  Breynton!" 

"I  am  not  Mrs.  Breynton.    I  am  Katharine — your  sister." 

"  Are  you  ?  No,  no  !  Katharine  is  Hugh's  wife — loving 
and  happy."  Katharine  dropjied  her  head  shudderingly. 
"  She  would  not  come  here — we  have  only  sorrow  here. 
But  you  must  not  let  her  know — no  li^■ing  soul  must  know 
what  Philip  said  that  night — that  there  was  a  gulf — a  bar 
between  us.  Let  me  whisper  it,  lest  the  world  might  hear, 
and  call  him  cruel.  But  he  is  not  cruel — he  is  all-good. 
Listen  !" — and  she  placed  her  lip  to  Katharine's  ear — "Per- 
haps some  one  loved  him  better  than  he  thought  I  did,  and 
he  is  married — married  !" 

"Oh  no,  indeed,  JNIiss  Ogilvie  !"  broke  in  Mrs.  Penn)-- 
thornc,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  Mr.  Wychnor  will  never 
marry.  He  told  me  so  one  day — the  very  day  I  brought 
you  his  letter." 

"Letter — his  letter!  Ah!  I  remember  every  word — 
every  word ;"  and  Avith  an  accent  of  thrilling  sorrow  she 
repeated,  line  by  line,  Philip's  last  farewell.  "And  then 
■ — I  forget  all  afterward — it  is  darkness — darkness  !"  she 
moaned,  while  her  head  drooped  on  her  bosom,  and  her 
eyes  closed. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  laid  her  down  on  the  pillow,  parted 
the  disheveled  hair,  and  bathed  her  brow  with  water. 
"What  a  gentle,  skillful  nurse  you  are!"  said  Katharine, 


THE    OGILVIES.  363 

who,  a  stranger  to  scenes  like  this,  was  trembling  Avltb 
alarm  and  agitation. 

"I  am  used  to  it,"  was  the  meek,  sad  reply,  as  she  bent 
over  her  charge. 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  silence,  and  then  Eleanor 
opened  her  eyes,  and  regarded  wistfully  her  tender  nurse. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  but  you  are  very  kind  to  me.  Per- 
haps my  mother  has  sent  you.  I  hear  her  calling  me  every 
hour,  but  I  can  not  go.  Tell  her  I  can  not !  I  must  not 
die  until — until —  What  Avas  it  that  I  had  to  do  ?"  Her 
eyes  wandered  restlessly,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
brow.  "  My  head  is  wild  !  I  can  not  remember  any 
thing  !  Help  me  !  do  help  me  !"  And  lier  piteous  gazo 
was  lifted  mournfully  to  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  "  Tell  me 
wliat  it  is  that  I  have  to  do  before  I  die." 

"Rei^eat  his  name;  she  will  hear  that,"  whispered  Kath- 
arine, regarding  her  sister  with  a  deep  sympathy  unfelt  be- 
fore. 

"Shall  we  send  for  any  one — for  Philip  ?"  gently  asked 
Mrs.  Pennythorne. 

"  Philip  !  Why  do  you  speak  about  Philip  ?  I  dared 
not  even  utter  his  name;  Mrs.  Breynton  would  not  let  me. 
Ah  !  that  is  it !"  and  a  delirious  light  shone  in  her  face. 
"  I  must  see  Mrs.  Breynton  ;  I  must  tell  her  to  forgive  my 
Philip  !  She  has  had  her  will,  for  we  shall  never  marry — 
never  see  one  another  any  more." 

She  ceased  a  moment,  and  tiien  rose  wildly  from  her 
couch. 

"You  are  cruel;  you  will  not  fetch  Mrs.  Breynton;  and 
until  I  know  she  will  forgive  him,  I  can  not  die.  I  am 
Aveary — so  weary — and  you  will  not  let  me  go  to  my 
mother!  Do  you  know" — and  she  caught  hold  of  Mrs. 
Pennythorne's  dres.s — "  I  see  her  standing  Avaiting  for  me 
— there  !  there  !" 

Katharine  started,  for  there  seemed  a  strange  reality  in 
:.!ie  fantasy  Avliich  directed  Eleanor's  fixed  eyes  and  lifted 
finger, 

"  The  room  is  filled  Avith  them  !"  contmued  the  delirious 


364  THE    OGILVIES. 

girl.  "They  come  around  me  by  night  and  by  day — some 
dead  faces,  some  living ;  but  they  are  all  sad — like  yours. 
Philip's  is  there  too  sometimes— smiling  so  tenderly,  as  he 
used  to  do  in  the  dear  old  palace  garden.  See  !  he  is  look- 
ing on  me  now  !  Ah  !  Philip,  you  did  love  me  once — you 
do  love  me — I  read  it  in  3'our  eyes ;  but  you  dare  not 
speak.  Then  I  must !  You  see,  dear  Philip,  I  am  calm" — 
and  her  voice  sank  almost  to  its  natural  tones — "  as  calm 
as  I  was  that  day  you  called  me  your  strength,  your  com- 
fort. Tell  me,  then,  what  is  this  bar  between  us — when  I 
am  rich,  when  I  love  you,  only  you,  my  Philip,  my  own 
Philip !"  She  paused,  but  after  a  few  moments'  silence 
broke  once  more  into  disconnected  ravings. 

Katharine  Avaited  xintil  the  shrill  tones  ceased,  and  her 
sister  fell  into  the  heavy  slumber  whicli  foretold  the  near 
approach  of  the  crisis.  Then  she  drew  Mrs.  Penny thorne 
aside. 

"Tell  me — you  know  better  than  I — is  there  any  hope?" 

There  was  hope,  for  youth  can  struggle  through  so 
much ;  with  this  sleep  the  fever  might  be  conquered. 

"And  then  she  Avill  wake — wake  to  what  ?  Death  might 
be  better  for  her  than  life !  it  is  so  sometimes,"  muttered 
Katharine  to  herself 

Mrs.  Penny  thorne  spoke  comfortingly.  She  looked  on 
the  pale,  excited  face  of  the  young  wife,  and  forgave  all 
her  imagined  errors.  Katharine  sat  in  deep  thought  with- 
out making  any  answer — perhaps  she  did  not  even  hear. 
At  last  she  said,  suddenly  and  decisively, 

"Mrs.  Pennythorne,  you  and  I  well  understand  one  an- 
other. Those  words  which  poor  Eleanor  has  uttered  you 
will  keep  sacred  ?" 

"Certainly.  Oh,  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  I  wish  indeed  that  Miss 
Eleanor  and  my  dear  Philip  Wychnor — " 

"  He  is  your  friend,  I  believe,"  interrupted  Katharine. 
"Tell  me  all  you  know  about  him." 

And  once  more  Mrs.  Pennythorne  gratefully  dwelt  on 
the  history  of  Philip's  goodness.  Then,  glad  to  relieve  her 
simple  heart  from  a  secret  that  weighed  heavily  upon  it, 


THE    OGILVIES.  365 

she  related  all  she  knew  about  the  letter,  which  had  made 
hei"  the  unconscious  niessens^er  of  so  mucli  evil. 

"I  did  not  notice  then,  but  I  remember  now,  how  earn- 
estly he  spoke,  and  how  unhappy  he  seemed.  I  am  sure 
there  was  something  painful  in  that  letter.  I  have  no  right 
to  say  a  word  on  tliis  subject,  but  I  do  feel  toward  Philip 
Wychnor  as  though  he  Avere  my  own  son.  If  I  could  only 
see  him  happy,  and  Miss  Ogilvie  too,  so  good  and  gentle  as 
she  is !  The  moment  I  saw  her  I  felt  sure  of  his  loving 
her — he  could  not  help  it.  It  is  a  sorrowful  world,"  con- 
tinued she,  after  waiting  a  while  for  the  answer,  which 
Mrs.  Ogilvie,  absorbed  in  thought,  withheld,  "yet  if  one 
could  but  make  these  two  young  creatures  happy — " 

"  It  shall  be — I  will  do  it !"  cried  Katharine.  "And  oh  !" 
she  said  softly  to  herself,  as  Mrs.  Pennythorne  glided  away 
at  the  physician's  summons,  "  if  I,  even  I,  can  but  leave  be- 
hind me  a  little  j^eace,  a  little  happiness,  surely  it  will  prove 
some  atonement.  If  I  have  sinned,  though  only  in  thought, 
against  my  husband,  I  may  bring  joy  to  the  sister  he  loves ; 
and  then  I  shall  pass  away  from  all,  and  ray  misery  will 
cumber  the  eartli  no  more." 

With  Katharine,  to  will  was  to  act.  She  sat  down  and 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Breynton,  entreating,  or  rather  commanding 
— for  her  earnestness  seemed  almost  like  a  command — that 
she  would  come  at  once  to  Summerwood.  Then  she  wrote, 
with  a  swift  though  trembling  hand,  a  few  lines — to  Paul 
Lynedon !  After  she  had  finished,  she  stood  irresolute — ■ 
but  only  for  a  moment.  She  sealed  the  letter,  and  laid  it 
with  the  other. 

"  Yes,  it  shall  go — I  can  trust  him — him  only.  He  will 
do  my  will,  whatever  it  be ;"  and  a  bitter  though  trium- 
phant smile  curved  her  lips.  "And  he  will  be  silent  too, 
no  fear !  This  my  act  might  seem  strange  to  the  world — 
perhaps  to  him ;  but  what  matter,  when  the  end  comes  ? 
and  it  is  perhaps  near — very  near.  I  pray  it  may  be  so  !" 
Her  voice  sank  to  an  inaudible  whisper;  for  even  then,  as- 
if  in  answer  to  that  awful  prayer,  she  felt  the  sharp  death 
warning  dart  through  her  side. 


366  THE    OGILTIES. 

Next  morning  Paul  Lynedon  came.  Katharine  knew  he 
would,  and  had  risen  long  before  the  rest  of  the  wearied 
and  anxious  household.  She  was  walking  in  the  avenue 
when  his  panting  horse  ai:)proached  ;  he  leaped  from  it  with 
a  look  of  the  wildest  ecstasy. 

"  You  sent  for  me :  how  good  !  liow  kind  !  What  thanks 
can  I  give  you,  dear  Mrs.  Ogilvie — dear  Jtatharine  P''^ 

He  uttered  softly,  almost  in  a  M'liisper,  the  long  unspo- 
ken name.  She  started,  and  drew  back  in  proud  reproof: 
"  You  forget,  Mr.  Lynedon." 

"Pardon  me;  I  had  indeed  forgotten  all — all  but  that 
happy  time  when  I  was  here  last.  Would  to  Heaven  it 
could  come  again,  and  you  Avere  once  more  that  dear  child 
who — " 

"A  child — you  tliought  me  a  child!"  cried  Katharine, 
with  that  impulse  which  in  the  early  days  of  this  second 
meeting  had  made  her  very  love  half  vengeance,  and  even 
now  caused  her,  as  it  were,  to  set  Iiersclf  against  herself, 
the  slighted  girl  against  the  worshiped  woman. 

"  I  thought — shall  I  tell  you  what  I  thought  you — what 
I  think  you  ?"  said  Lynedon,  eagerly. 

"  No !"  The  word  reined  him  in  his  mad  impulse,  and 
he  stood  mute. 

"Mr. Lynedon" — the  calm,  cold  tone  struck  him  like  an 
arrow — "shall  we  change  our  conversation?  Let  me  ex- 
plain tlie  reason  which  made  me  trespass  on  your  kind- 
ness."    He  bowed,  and  walked  by  her  side  up  the  avenue. 

Katharine  went  on :  "  There  is  something  very  near  my 
heart  in  which  I  can  trust  no  frie/ur'' — she  laid  the  faintest 
emphasis  on  the  word — "  no  friend  but  you.  Will  you — 
asking  no  questions,  seeking  no  explanations — do  it  for  me?" 

"  Will  I  ?  you  know  I  will !" 

"I  want  you  to  seek  for  a  friend  of  yours,  or  an  acquaint- 
ance at  least — Philip  Wychnor.  He  is  gone  a  journey — 
whither  I  know  not,  and  have  no  means  of  knowing  save 
through  you.  Find  him ;  bring  him  hither,  on  what  ex- 
cuse you  will;  or  j)erhaps — the  truth  is  always  best — I 
will  write  to  him,  and  you  shall  bear  the  letter." 


THE    OGILVIES.  367 

"This  is  all  mystery;  I  can  not  fathom  it,"  said  Paul, 
uneasily,  his  jealous  mind  at  once  forming  the  most  tortur- 
ing conclusions.     "  Only  tell  me — " 

"I  will  tell  vou  nothino- :  only  do  this,  I  entreat  you — 
do  it  for  me."  And  Katharine's  eagerness  made  her  tone 
so  tremulous,  so  bewitching,  that  Paul  Lynedon  could  have 
fallen  at  her  feet. 

"  I  promise,"  said  he.  "  Heaven  knows  I  would  j^lunge  a 
knife  into  my  very  heart  if  you  bade  me,"  he  added,  speak- 
ing low  and  hurriedly. 

As  low,  but  almost  as  fearful  in  its  firmness,  Avas  Katlia- 
rine's  reply  :  "  I  might,  but  I  would  thrust  it  into  my  own 
heart  next." 

He  looked  at  her  astonished,  but  her  face  was  turned 
away.  The  next  moment  she  had  sprung  forward  to  meet 
her  father,  who  crossed  their  path  on  his  early  morning 
walk. 

"  You  have  ridden  over  to  inquire  for  my  poor  niece, 
Mr.  Lynedon?"  said  Sir  Robert.  "How  exceedingly  kind 
of  you  !  You  must  stay  and  breakiast  with  us.  Persuade 
him,  Katharine — " 

But  Katharine  had  already  glided  away. 


CHAPTER  XLYTTI. 

Art  thoii  alrendy  weary  of  tlie  way  ? 

Thou,  who  hast  yet  l)ut  half  the  way  gone  o'er: 
Get  up  and  lift  thy  burden  I 

******* 
Say  thou  not  sadly,  "  Never,"  and  "'  Xo  more  ;" 

But  from  lliy  lips  banish  those  fiilsest  words  : 
While  life  remains,  that  which  was  thine  before 
Again  may  be  thine  ;  in  Time's  storehouse  lie 

Days,  hours,  and  moments  tliat  liave  unknown  hoards 
Of  joy,  as  well  as  sorrow  :  passing  by, 
Smiles  come  with  tears. — Fraxces  Anne  Butler. 

There  is  scarce  a  town  in  England  more  suggestive  of 
speculation  upon  what  our  good  friend  David  Drysdalc 
would  have  entitled  "  the  noble  science  of  man"  than  that 


368  THE    OGILVIES. 

turnpike  gate  on  the  European  liighway  —  Dover.  Not 
tliat  one  need  pause  to  enumerate  from  Pinnock  or  Gold- 
smith how  many  kings  "landed  at  Dover,"  or  "set  sail 
from  Dover."  The  present  is  quite  fruitful  enough  to  set 
aside  the  past.  Think  of  the  multitude  of  small  historiettes 
worked  out  here :  how  that,  among  the  throng  that  from 
year  to  year  pass  by,  are  all  ranks  and  characters — fugi- 
tive royalty ;  errant  nobility ,  the  regiment  departing,  its 
mournful  fi-agments  returned  ;  or,  to  descend  to  individu- 
als— debtor  Hying  creditor;  married  lovers  speeding  to  hap- 
piness and  honeymoon;  wretched  and  erring  ones  speeding 
faster  still  into  what  must  be  in  the  end  a  ])iiserable  doom; 
liajipy  men  seeking  pleasure;  sick-hearted,  hopeless  men 
rushing  any  where  for  oblivion.  And  here  m'C  pause,  for 
with  such  a  one  we  have  to  do. 

Philip  Wyclinor  had  reached  Dover  on  his  way  to  the 
Continent.  lie  would  have  simply  passed  through  it,  long- 
ing for  the  moment  when  he  should  set  his  last  footstep — 
at  least  the  last  for  many  years — on  English  shores.  But 
fate — the  fate  which  one  less  pious-hearted  would  have  an- 
grily cursed — detained  him  for  many  days.  He  spent  them 
restlessly  enough,  ])atient  as  he  was,  in  his  daily  toil  of  lit- 
erary necessity — alas  for  the  poor  author! — ^and  in  evening 
wanderings  al)out  the  country.  Beauty  lie  found — for  a 
poet's  mind  finds  beauty  every  where — but  yet  he  could 
not  realize  it.  lie  felt  upon  him  the  commencement  of  that 
doom,  to  roam  the  wide  world,  "finding  no  rest  for  the  sole 
of  his  foot." 

The  reviving  from  a  great  woe  is  sometimes  worse  than 
the  M'oe  itself.  The  world  looks  so  blank,  so  dreary;  Ave 
see  it  once  more;  our  dull  eyes  even  acknowledge  its  glory; 
but  it  is  like  looking  on  a  beautiful  coi'se  from  whence  the 
life  is  gone.  Earth  smiles.  Heaven  smiles,  just  as  hereto- 
fore; but  the  smile  resembles  that  on  a  face  once  loved, 
'vhich  meets  us  vacautl}',  the  heart  beneath  it  shining  out 
liio  longer.  We  do  not  weep  ;  perhaps  we  scarcely  suifer : 
we  are  quite  calm,  gentle,  patient ;  all  goes  on  with  us  as 
before;  we  walk  through  the  beaten  path  of  our  daily  ex- 


THE    OGILVIES.  309 

istence,  but  the  light  is  gone  from  the  world ;  the  present 
seems  inane  and  dim ;  and  oh  !  merciful  God,  we  have  no 
future  and  no  past!  Not  liere!  but  Ave  know  Ave  have 
hereafter.  And  then  Ave  see  infolding  us  an  arm  of  com- 
fort and  strength,  and  hear  the  voice — "  I  AM  !" 
Can  I  suffice  for  heaven  and  not  for  earth  ? 

So  Philip  felt  Avhen  he  sat  alone  in  the  twilight  on  the 
cliff  halloAved  by  tradition  as  "Shakspeare's."  The  hour 
was  so  late  that  all  sea-side  idlers  had  long  departed,  and 
the  place  seemed  as  lonely  and  dreary  as  in  the  olden  time 
of  Shakspeare,  Lear,  and  poesy.  The  sea  sang  hollowly  far 
below;  and  Avhen  the  last  sunset  tinge  had  faded  behind 
the  DoAvns,  they  assumed  a  robe  of  mist,  spectral  and  mys- 
terious. Gradually  it  folded  itself  round  the  clift',  complete- 
ly hiding  the  sea  beneath,  so  that  the  melancholy  voice 
arose  from  Avaters  that  Avere  heard,  not  seen. 

Driven  by  that  irresistible  im^ndse  which  seizes  most 
men  on  such  a  spot  of  danger — so  much  so  that  the  ancients 
believed  a  tempting  demon  stood  on  the  brink  of  each  abyss 
— Philip  crept  to  the  utmost  A-erge  of  the  cliif.  UnAvitting- 
ly,  and  fitfully,  there  danced  through  his  brain  the  poet's 
tale  Avhich  liad  made  the  spot  renowned — he  thought  of 
blind  Gloster,  hunted  by  fate  into  that  last  plunge  Avhich 
Avould  determine  all.  He  pictured  Avhat  the  old  man's  feel- 
ings might  have  been — Avhat  must  be  the  thoughts  of  any 
man  sick  of  life — looking  curiously,  desiringly,  into  the  aAV- 
ful  mystery  beyond — so  near,  that  one  simple  movement 
would  make  it  a  reality. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  hoAV  in  that  man  he  had  pict- 
ured himself. 

The  conviction — horrible,  yet  full  of  a  daring  pride,  a  de- 
licious alluring  aAve — burst  upon  him,  that  he  held  his  soul, 
as  it  were,  by  a  thread  ;  that  he  Avas  master  of  his  own  des- 
tiny :  one  step,  and  he  might  pass  from  the  Avorld's  tortures 
to — Avhere  ? 

"My  life  is  in  my  hand,"  he  muttered  in  the  Avords  of 
one  sorely  tried  of  old — "J/y  life  is  in  my  hand.,  yet  I  do 
not  forget  thy  laicP'' 


370  THE    OGILVIES. 

Shuddering,  he  drew  back  from  the  abyss  in  horror.  But 
he  felt  that  to  his  latest  day  that  iiiiiiutc's  sensation  would 
teach  him  compassion  for  suicides.  And  while  he  shrank 
fearfully  from  the  crime  only  thought  of  in  possibility,  the 
revulsion  sottened  him  from  dull  dreariness  into  a  sorrow 
that,  but  for  his  strong  manhood,  would  have  melted  in 
tears.  He  was  glad — thankful  for  any  sense — even  the 
sense  of  suffering.  He  looked  up  at  the  stars,  which  were 
beginning  to  shine  through  the  gloomy  night,  and  prayed 
Heaven  to  keep  him  free  from  sin,  that  he  might  endure 
with  a  patient  heart  through  life  unto  its  ending. 

Then  he  Avent  homeward,  greatly  composed.  He  sought 
to  feel  as  though  he  belonged  to  the  world.  Passing 
through  the  town,  he  tried  to  look  around  him,  and  feel  an 
interest  in  the  various  talking  and  laughing  groups,  the 
street  music,  the  cheerful  shops ;  but  it  was  vain.  He 
seemed  as  ditferent  from  the  rest  of  mankind  as  the  gloomy 
cliffs  from  the  gay-lighted  street  which  they  overhung. 

When  he  reached  the  inn,  he  learned  there  was  a  gentle- 
man awaiting  him.     Entering,  he  saw — Paul  Lynedon  ! 

Had  the  visitant  been  a  ghost  from  the  dead,  a  demon 
returned  to  the  upper  world,  he  could  not  have  raised  more 
fearful  passions  in  Philip  Wychnor's  breast.  Anguish,  ter- 
ror, even  a  thrill  of  fierce  hatred  overwhelmed  him.  He 
sprang  toward  Lynedon,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did, 
and  then  sank  into  a  chair,  speechless. 

"  I  have  startled  you,  I  see.  I  ought  to  ajiologize,"  said 
Lynedon,  gently  and  courteously,  though  somewhat  anno}-- 
ed  at  this  rather  strange  reception.  But  Paul  was  a  man 
who  would  have  shov^•n  dignified  civility  to  his  executioner 
on  the  scaffold. 

Philip  Wychnor  answ^ered  him  not  a  word. 

"Perhaps  this  visit  is  ill  timed — an  intrusion.  But,  in 
excuse,  I  need  only  mention  your  friends  and  mine — the 
Ogilvics." 

Philip  started  up  in  an  agony.  "  Sir — Mr.  Lynedon — 
tell  mo  Avhat  you  have  to  say  without  mentioning  names. 
I  have  been  terribly  tried  and  I  pretend  not  to  superhuman 


THE    OGILVIES.  371 

Btrength.  I  wish  to  leave  England,  forget  all  friends, break 
all  ties,  for  a  season.     Wliy  must  I  be  tortured  any  more  V" 

Lynedou  opened  his  eyes  with  extreme  but  still  most 
polite  astonishment. 

"Pardon  me,  and  forget  all  I  have  been  weak  enough  to 
say,"  Philip  continued,  trying  to  calm  himself  with  remem- 
bering to  tohom  he  spoke.  "  I  shall  forget  it  myself  soon. 
Will  you  sit?" 

He  pointed  to  a  chair,  but  remained  standing  himself, 
ieaning  against  the  wall. 

"This  is  a  strange  welcome  from  an  acquaintance — I 
would  fain  have  said  a  friend;  but  I  pass  it  by, Mr.Wych- 
nor,  both  for  your  own  sake  and  hei'S  whose  messenger  I 
am."     And  he  presented  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  letter. 

Under  all  circumstances,  Paul  Lynedon  had  the  gentle- 
ness of  a  true  gentleman.  He  saw  at  once  that  something 
was  terribly  wrong  with  the  young  man.  He  pitied  him. 
Conquering  at  once  his  natural  curiosity  and  the  vague 
jealousy  which  was  dawning  in  him,  he  v>'alked  to  the  open 
Avindow  and  contemplated  the  stars,  so  that,  of  whatever 
news  he  had  been  the  unlucky  bearer,  his  companion  miglit 
learn  them  unobserved.  But  he  expected  not  to  hear  the 
cry — almost  like  a  woman's  agony — which  broke  from 
Philip  Wychnor.  It  brought  him  at  once  to  the  young 
man's  side. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     Can  I—" 

Philip  caught  his  arm  Avildly.  "  You  know — tell  me  the 
truth,  on  your  soul — you  know  what  this  letter  contains?" 

"  On  my  soul, I  do  not !" 

"  What*!  not  that  she  is  ill— dying  ?" 

"  Dying  !"  cried  Lynedon,  vehemently,  his  thoughts  re- 
curring to  the  only  woman  who  ever  occupied  them  now. 
But  he  recollected  himself  at  once  :  "  No,  you  mistake  ;  it 
is  only  Miss  Ogilvie  Avho  is  ill." 

Philip  looked  in  his  face  with  an  eager,  half-incredulous 
Btare.  '■'•'■  Oyily ?"  You  say  so  calmly!  You  come  liere 
when — " 

Paiil  began  to  guess  dimly  at  the  truth — at  least  some 


372  THE    OGILVIES. 

part  of  it.  He  answered  kindly,  "I  regret  Miss  Ogilvie's 
illness  much ;  she  is  a  gentle  creature,  and  I  am  happy  to 
call  her  my  friend,  but — " 

The  careless  tone  struck  Philip  with  conviction  at  once : 
"  I  see  it  all  now — all !  Oh,  what  have  I  done  ?  May  God 
forgive  me  !" 

He  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  and  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

Paul  was  touched.  Once  upon  a  time  he  might  have 
mocked  at  such  weakness ;  but  now  his  own  heart  taught 
him  differently.  He  said,  with  kindness  and  delicacy,  "You 
and  I, and  all  her  friends, must  rejoice  that  the  crisis  is  past: 
I  heard  so  to-day  from  Summerwood.  She  Avill  recover, 
please  God  !" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  Lynedon  thought  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  walk  to  the  window  again.  He 
remained  there  until  he  felt  a  hand  on  his.  It  was  Philip 
Wychnor's.  His  face  was  as  white  as  death,  but  it  M^ore  a 
calmness  almost  like  joy. 

"You  will  pardon  all  this, Lynedon?" 

"  My  dear  fellow" — and  Paul  returned  the  cordial  grasp 
— "  don't  speak  of  it.  I'm  sure  I  am  very  sorry — that  is, 
glad — but,  being  quite  in  the  dark,  and  having  a  great  re- 
s])ect  for  both  parties,  might  I — " 

"Do  not  ask  me  any  thing — do  not  think  any  thing.  One 
day  you  may  know  all." 

"  Well,  as  you  like :  all  I  know  now  is,  that  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
wished  to  see  you ;  that  I  sought  you  by  her  desire." 

"  God  bless  you,  and  her  !"  cried  Philip. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Lynedon's  brow.  He  felt  like  a 
demon  in  the  presence  of  a  saint. 

"  You  will  be  kind  and  leave  me  now,"  pursued  Philip. 
"  I  feel  towards  you  deeply,  thankfully.  We  shall  meet 
again  as  sincere  friends  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Paul,  warmly. 

Wychnor  followed  liim  to  the  door.  As  they  said  adieu, 
he  looked  repentantly,  almost  affectionately,  into  the  face 
wliich  had  once  seemed  to  him  like  that  of  a  haunting  fiend. 


THE    OGILVIES.  373 

"Forgive  me  once  more.  You  know  not  what  I  have 
endured.  May  you  never  know  the  like !  May  you  be 
happy — very  happy  !     You  deserve  it — I  am  sure." 

Lyuedon  sprang  from  the  door :  the  blessing  knelled  on 
his  ear  like  a  iudo;ment-doom  !  He  fled  from  its  sound, 
but  its  echo  followed  him ;  he  dulled  it  with  wine,  but  it 
rose  up  again.  At  last  he  clutched  it  as  one  clutches  in 
des23air  some  ever-pursuing  horror.  He  said  to  himself, 
that  not  for  earth,  heaven,  or  hell  would  he  give  up  Kath- 
arine Ogilvie ! 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


Thou  hast  named  a  name 
Which  to  my  conscience  gives  such  secret  pangs. 
— Yea,  tiicre  is  nothing  that  I  would  not  do 
lu  reparation  of  the  wrong  I've  done  him. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

Remorse,  if  proud  and  gloomy — 
It  is  a  poison-tree,  that,  pierced  to  the  utmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison. — Coleuidge. 

Mes.  Bkeyxto:^  was  sitting  in  her  breakfast-room — or 
rather  moving  restlessly  about,  impatient  of  her  solitude — 
when  she  heard  the  tidino;s  of  Eleanor's  dan2:er.  The  shock 
fell  upon  her  with  overwhelming  suddenness.  Eleanor's 
absence  had  revealed  how  the  gentle  girl  had  twined  her- 
self round  this  aged  heart,  bringing  to  it  life,  and  youth, 
and  warmtli  unknown  before.  The  first  few  days  of  her 
loneliness  Mrs.  Breynton  had  chafed  and  fumed.  Nay,  but 
for  her  pride,  she  would  have  summoned  Eleanor  back.  As 
it  Mas,  she  had  time  to  discover  how  strong  was  this  sec- 
ond aifection — almost  rivaling  the  one  pre-eminent  feeling, 
her  love  for  her  nephew.  She  now  began  to  desire  more 
anxiously  than  ever  the  working  out  of  her  long-projected 
scheme,  which,  in  making  Eleanor  Philip's  wife,  should  bind 
both  attachments  in  one. 

And  then  came  tlie  letter  of  Katharine  Ogilvie,  with  ti- 
dings which  threatened  ruin  alike  to  her  worldly  schemes, 


374  THE    OGILVIES. 

her  planning  ambition,  her  long-suppressed  affections,  which 
in  old  age  had  risen  up  so  strong.  Mrs.  Breynton  was  be- 
wildered— grief,  fear,  remorse  wrung  her  heart  by  turns. 
Again  and  again  she  read  the  letter:  it  seemed  to  grow 
more  and  more  confused.  She  was  conscious  of  but  one 
impulse — that  she  must  that  instant  go  to  Summerwood. 

She  summoned  the  waiting-woman  who  had  grown  old 
in  her  service,  and  bade  her  prepare  for  the  sudden  journey. 
When  Davis  broke  out  in  loud  remonstrances,  she  was  si- 
lenced by  a  look — not  commanding,  as  of  old,  but  piteous- 
ly  weak  and  imploring. 

"  Do  not  hinder  me,  good  Davis.  She  will  die  before  I 
reach  her.  My  dear  Eleanor  ! — poor  Isabel's  child  !  May 
God  foigive  me  if  I  did  her  wrong!"  Davis,  though  scarce- 
ly understanding  her  broken  words,  grew  terrified  at  the 
chauQ-e  which  had  come  over  the  dean's  widow. 

"Let  me  go  too,  dear  mistress," sobbed  the  faithful  creat- 
ure. "  Let  me  go,  that  I  may  be  with  you  in  your  trouble, 
and  see  poor  dear  Miss  Eleanor  once  more." 

Mrs.  Breynton  passively  assented ;  and  the  two  aged 
women,  mistiness  and  maid,  traveled  all  night,  scarcely  ex- 
changing a  word  until  they  reached  Summerwood. 

Katharine  met  Mrs.  Breynton  at  the  door.  She  had  oft- 
en heard  Iliigli  jestingly  describe  the  stately,  stern-featured, 
black-robed  widow  of  the  dean ;  but  she  saw  only  a  bent, 
haggard  woman,  who,  clinging  to  her  servant's  arm,  seemed 
to  tremble  with  apprehension  ere  she  crossed  the  threshold. 
Katharine  stepped  forward  quickly. 

"  Will  you  lean  on  me,  Mrs.  Breynton  ?  I  am  Katharine 
Ogilvie." 

Mrs.  Breynton  seized  her  arm.  "Is  she — ^"  And  the 
eager  eyes  alone  continued  the  mute  question. 

"She  lives  still.     She  may  live." 

"  Thank  God  !"  Never,  during  her  lifetime,  had  Mrs. 
Breynton  breathed  so  deep,  so  solemn  a  thanksgivmg.  She 
staggered  to  a  seat ;  and  for  the  first  time  for  many  years 
the  old  servant  saw  her  mistress  weej). 

It  Avas  some  hours  before  Mrs.  Breynton  was  sufl'ercd  to 


THE    OGILVIES.  3  "75 

enter  Eleanor's  chamber.     Then  Katharine  led  her  in  for 
a  few  moments  only,  to  look  on  the  sick  girl  as  she  slept. 

The  crisis  had  passed,  and  Eleanor  lay  calm,  though 
scarcely  breathing.  In  her  pale,  wasted  face,  round  which 
the  close  cap  was  tied,  there  was  a  likeness  to  one  which 
Mrs.  Breynton  had  last  seen  when  she  stood  beside  the 
orphan  daughter,  to  take  a  farewell  look  of  the  dead.  The 
resemblance  struck  her  now  with  a  vain  repentance.  She 
fell  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Isabel — Isabel  Morton  !"  she  cried,  "  your  life  was  dark- 
ened by  me  and  mine.  Heaven  forgive  us  for  the  wrong, 
vrhich  ended  not  with  the  mother,  but  passed  on  to  the 
child!  Eleanor!  —  my  sweet,  meek  Eleanor!  live  —  only 
live — and  I  Avill  confess  all — atone  for  all !" 

She  seemed  not  to  notice  the  presence  of  another,  but 
Katharine's  ear  caught  every  word.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
had  led  Mrs.  Breynton  from  the  chamber  of  the  yet  sleep- 
ing girl.  Then  she  spoke,  in  the  low,  firm  tone  by  which 
Katharine,  when  she  willed,  could  rule  all  minds  weaker 
than  her  own : 

"Mrs.  Breynton,  I  am  almost  a  stranger  to  you;  but  I 
have  a  right  to  speak,  for  Eleanor  is  my  sister,  and  you 
hold  her  happiness  in  your  hands.  How,  or  why  this  is,  I 
know  not,  and  seek  not  to  know;  but  thus  much  I  have 
learned — that  she  and  your  nephew,  Philip  Wychnor,  have 
loved  one  another  for  many  years,  and  that  you  prevented 
their  marriage." 

The  shadow  of  her  former  freezing  dignity  came  to  the 
dean's  widow,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Conscience-stricken, 
she  quailed  before  the  clear  eyes  that  seemed  to  read  her 
heart.     "  It  is  all  true — all  true  !"  she  muttered. 

Katharine  went  on.  "  What  I  wish  to  say  is  this  :  that 
Philip  Wychnor  has  been  deceived  in  some  way — that  he 
has  cast  Eleanor  off,  believing  her  faithless — and  that  his 
unkindness  has  almost  broken  her  heart.  He  has  gone 
away — abroad,  I  believe." 

"He  must  not  —  shall  not  go,"  almost  screamed  Mrs. 
Breynton  :  "it  is  not  too  late,  even  now  !" 

R 


376  THE    OGILVIES. 

"  No  ;  for  whoever  has  stood  between  them,  /  will  bring 
them  togethei-.  Take  care,  Mrs.  Breynton ;  I  am  very- 
strong — stronger  than  you.  You  have  been  most  cruel  to 
these  two.  But,  with  your  will  or  against  it,  they  shallhe 
happy  now." 

And  Katharine  stood  before  the  cowering,  remorseful 
woman  like  an  avenging  angel.  She  met  with  no  opposi- 
tion— not  even  when  she  spoke  of  Pliilip  Wychnor's  com- 
ing, which  she  daily  expected.  Mrs.  Breynton  knew  the 
time  was  near  when  she  must  confess.  Her  shame  was 
heavy  upon  her,  but  her  suffering  outweighed  it  all.  She 
entreated  to  see  Eleanor  alone,  but  this  was  forbidden. 
Katharine  seemed  to  govern  the  whole  household,  including 
the  frightened  Hugh,  wlio  had  come  liastily  to  Summer- 
wood,  and  lamented  by  turns  the  illness  of  his  sister,  and 
the  loss  of  a  whole  fortnight's  grouse-shooting. 

In  a  few  days  Eleanor  became  convalescent.  At  /ength 
Katharine  led  Mrs.  Breynton  to  the  sick-chamber.  She 
only  staid  to  see  Eleanor  stretch  out  her  arms  with  a  faint 
cry  of  joy,  while  the  aged  woman  sank  on  her  knees  beside 
her ;  then  she  closed  the  door  and  went  away. 

It  was  almost  an  hour  before  she  was  summoned  to  her 
sister's  room.  Eleanor  lay,  pale  indeed,  but  with  such  glad- 
ness in  her  eyes,  such  a  spiritual  light  suflusing  her  whole 
face,  that  Katharine  marveled  at  her  beauty.  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton sat  beside  her,  looking  very  humble ;  but  her  hand  was 
fast  clasped  in  Eleanor's,  and  from  time  to  time  the  girl 
turned  upon  her  a  look  full  of  pity,  forgiveness,  and  cheer. 

Katharine  advanced.  "  You  need  not  speak,  dearest ;  I 
see  your  face.  All  is  peace  and  hope  witli  you  now  !"  Her 
voice  failed  a  little,  and  one  tear  dimmed  her  eyes. 

"  It  will  be,  soon — soon,  please  God." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Eleanor—" 

"  Ay,  tell  her,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton.     "  It  is  but  just." 

"  Hush !  hush !  there  is  nothing  to  tell,"  and  the  wan 
fingers  closed  tighter  over  Mrs.  Breynton's.  "Katharine, 
I  think  you  have  guessed  all — that  we  have  loved  one  an- 
other for  many,  many  years.     I  have  only  a  few  words 


THE    OGILVIES.  377 

more  to  say.     Come  closer,  dear,  for  I  am  very  tired  and 
weak." 

Katharine  bent  over  her.  Eleanor  went  on  quicker, 
though  speaking  very  faintly  : 

"  Philip  was  mistaken.  He  heard  a  rumor  concerning 
something  that  happened  years  ago,  about  one  who  liked 
jne  once,  or  at  least  imagined  he  did  so.  Thus  far  the  tale 
v/as  true.  He  wished  to  marry  me.  But  it  was  in  vain ; 
I  never  loved  any  one  save  Philip.  Katharine,  I  must  see 
Philip,  to  tell  him  so.  If  I  die,  the  knowledge  will  comfort 
him,  and  give  him  peace.     If  I  live — " 

"You  will  live  —  you  must  live,  my  darling!"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Breynton. 

"  Yes,  dear  friend,  I  may  live,  please  God  !  to  be  your 
child  still,"  Avas  the  gentle  answer.  "But,  Katharine, bring 
Philip  to  me  !  He  loves  me ;  he  did  love  me  through  all, 
and  I  have  no  pride  in  my  heart — only  love.  Let  him  come, 
that  I  may  take  away  his  sorrow." 

"Be  content,  Eleanor,  Ave  will  send,"  said  Katharine, 
soothingly;  "nay,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  is  already  sent  for 
by  my  own  desire.     He  will  come  soon." 

"Ah!  that  makes  me  happy — so  happy!  Thank  you, 
dear,  kind  sister,"  faintly  answered  the  sick  girl,  closins:  her 
eyes.  A  moment  after,  she  said, dreamily, "  Whom  did  vou 
send  ?     Was  it  Hugh  ?" 

"No,  a  friend  of  his,  and  yours  too."  Katharine  hesV 
tated.     "  In  truth,  it  was  Mr.  Lynedon." 

Eleanor  started  up  wildly.  "  Oh  no,  you  could  not,  you 
did  not  send  Mr.  Lynedon !  My  Philip,  my  poor  Philip  !  it 
will  drive  him  mad !  And  I  am  not  there  to  tell  him  the 
truth — that  I  did  notlisten,not  one  moment ;  that  no  pow- 
er on  earth  should  ever  have  made  me  Paul  Lynedon's 
wife." 

"Paul  Lynedon's  wife!"  Even  Eleanor's  face  was  not 
more  death -like  than  Katharine's  Avhen  she  echoed  the 
words.  "Eleanor,  answer  me:  was  it  Paul  Lynedon  Avho 
asked  you  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Yes — yes.     I  never  told  any  one — not  even  Philip  :  I 


378  THE    OGILVIES. 

would  not  now,  but  I  am  so  weak,  and  my  lieart  is  break' 
ing.  Katharine,  think  for  me ;  write  to  Philip — tell  him 
you  know  I  never  cared  for  Mr,  Lynedon.  You  do  know, 
for  it  all  passed  at  that  fatal  visit  to  Summerwood." 

'•''That  was  the  time,  then  !"  said  Katharine;  and  the 
words  came  hissingly  through  her  closed  lips.  "  I  am  glad 
you  told  me  this;  it  comes  not  too  late.  It  will  save  you 
— perhaps  not  you  alone.  Kest,  sister,  rest !  I  will  do  all 
yoii  wish." 

She  unclasped  the  arm  which  had  folded  round  )ier  in 
frantic  eneigy,and  laid  Eleanor  down, exhausted  and  weep- 
ing. Then  she  glided  from  the  chamber.  In  the  apart- 
ment beyond,  Mrs.  Pennythorne  sat  alone  ;  from  the  open 
dining-room  door  came  the  voices  of  Sir  Robert  and  Hugh, 
She  could  gain  no  solitude  within  the  house,  so  fled  wildly 
IVoin  it. 

Out  into  the  dreary,  moonless  autumn  night,  the  dark- 
ness and  the  rain,  Katharine  passed.  She  walked  rapidly, 
the  bleak  wind  lifting  her  hair,  and  piercing  to  her  unshel- 
tered bosom.  At  the  end  of  the  avenue,  where  Lynedon 
liad  that  morning  lately  come  bounding  to  her  side,  she 
stopped. 

'^  He  told  me  a  lie — a  lie  !"  she  cried.  "  He  deceived  mo 
— even  in  those  old  days :  he  has  deceived  me  now.  He  is 
false — all  false  !  And  I  have  wrecked  my  peace  on  earth 
— almost  my  hope  of  heaven — for  love  of  him! 

"  Paul !  Paul  Lynedon  !  you  love  me  now — I  know  it ! 
Heart  and  soul,  you  are  mine  !  But  it  had  been  better  for 
you  to  have  torn  out  that  false  tongue  of  yours  before  it 
uttered  that  lie,  the  last  lie  of  all — before  you  told  me  you 
had  never  wished  to  marry  Eleanor  Ogilvie." 

Ere  long  her  stormy  anger  passed  into  weeping.  "I 
wished  to  die  !"  she  moaned,  "  for  then  I  should  escape  sin, 
and  suffer  no  more  sorrow.  I  would  have  died  calmly,  be- 
lieving in  him  still,  though  how  dearly  I  loved  him  I  dared 
not  let  him  know.  Never — never !  I  would  never  have 
let  him  know.  Wretched  we  might  have  been,  but  we 
would  never  have  been  wicked.     I  would  still  have  honor- 


THE    OGILVIES.  379 

ed  him — trusted  him — believed  liim  noble  and  true.  But 
he  is  false — all  false — false  to  the  heart's  core.  He  always 
was  so.  And  I  loved  him — I  love  him.  Oh  miserable 
me  !" 

A  little  lono-er  this  wail  of  a  wrecked  heart  was  wasted 
on  the  silent  night,  and  then  Katharine  saw  lights  moving 
in  tlie  liouse.  She  returned  hastily  thither,  lest  her  absence 
should  have  caused  surprise.  Crossing  the  hall,  she  met 
Sir  Robert  and  Hugh. 

"Really,  Katharine,  these  late  rambles  in  the  grounds 
are  very  injurious  to  health.  And  you  have  no  bonnet! 
My  dear  Hugh,  you  should  take  better  care  of  your  wife," 
observed  the  baronet,  as  he  ascended  the  stairs. 

"Take  care  of  Katharine  !  Nay,  I  can't  do  that.  Slie's 
a  young  filly  that  will  neither  be  led  nor  driven.  I  have 
found  that  out  at  last,"  said  Hugh,  carelessly. 

Katliarine  was  passing  him  b3',but  at  his  words  she  turn- 
ed and  looked  him  in  the  face.  Her  whole  bearing  express- 
ed the  most  intense  and  withering  scorn.  A  strange  con- 
trast was  there  between  the  husband  and  wife;  he,  grown 
awkward  and  heavy,  and  becoming  each  day  coarser  in  per- 
son as  in  mind — she,  with  her  ardent  soul  flashing  in  her 
eyes  and  dilating  her  stature,  while  her  slender,  beautifid 
form,  gradually  wasting  away,  made  her  seem  hardly  like 
a  creature  of  this  world. 

"What  was  that  you  said?" 

"Oh,  notliing  —  nothing!"  And  Hugh  shrank  away, 
cowed,  before  her  fixed  gaze.  "  Don't  be  vexed,  Katha- 
rine ;  I  only  meant  that  you  were  not  quite  as  you  used  to 
be ;  but  I  suppose  all  girls  change  when  they  marry." 

"  Tliose  were  not  your  words.     Speak  the  truth." 

"  What's  tlio  use,  if  you  know  it  already  ?"  said  Hugh, 
sulkily.     "  I>ut  don't  keep  me  here,  pray;  I'm  going  out." 

She  stood  in  his  path  still. 

"  Stay,  Hugh  ;  you  said  I  would  neither  be  led  nor  driven, 
and  you  are  right ;  I  will  not." 

"I'm  sui-e  I  don't  want  to  try.  Many  a  Inisband  might 
complain  of  the  little  attention  you  pay,  but  I  always  take 


380  THE    OGILVIES. 

it  quietly.  Still,  what  with  your  visiting,  and  your  literary 
parties,  and  your  fine  gentlemen  friends — '* 

"Hugh,  take  care!"  Katharine  broke  in,  wildly.  "Do 
not  try  me  too  much.  Speak  kindly  to  me — let  me  do  as 
I  Avill;  it  can  not  be  for  long — not  long." 

"  Eh  !  what  V"  and,  struck  by  her  tone,  he  came  nearer, 
and  gazed  in  her  excited  countenance  with  some  show  of 
interest.  "Poor  little  Katharine!  you  don't  look  well — 
you  hardly  seem  to  know  what  you're  saying.  This  anxi- 
ety about  Nelly  has  been  too  much  for  you.  There,  be  qui- 
et !"  His  words  were  not  without  aftection,  though  it  was 
expressed  in  his  own  careless  flishion.  He  stooped  down 
and  patted  his  wife's  head  tenderly. 

The  tone  and  action  smote  Katharine's  heart  with  a  re- 
morseful memory  of  olden  days — when  she  had  known  no 
stronger  love  than  that  won  by  the  unfailiiig  devotion  of 
Cousin  Hugh.  The  thought  drew  her  nearer  to  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Forgive  me,  Hugh.  I  might  have  made  you  happier, 
perhaps.  We  were  not  suited,  for  one  3.nother.  We  should 
not  have  married." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  well,  it  is  too  late  now.  We 
must  make  the  best  of  one  another,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  tone 
half  angry,  half  sorrowful,  as  he  turned  away. 

Katharine  caught  his  hand.  "Oh,  Hugh  —  good,  kind 
cousin  Hugh  !  why  did  you  not  let  me  call  you  by  that 
name  all  your  life  through  ?    I  could  have  loved  you  then." 

"  And  you  don't  now  ?  You  have  said  so  once  or  twice 
before.  AVell,  I  can't  help  that ;  I  must  learn  not  to  mind 
it."     And  he  sighed  heavily. 

Again  the  wife  felt  a  repentant  pang.  "Husband, have 
pity  ;  my  heart  is  breaking  !  Every  day  ^ve  seem  to  live 
only  to  make  each  other  miserable." 

"  Luckily,  we  shall  get  rid  of  one  another  soon — for  a 
time,  at  least.  Now  Eleanor  is  better,  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  not  go  back  to  the  grouse-shooting.  I'll  start  to- 
morrow." 

Moved  by  an  unaccountable  impulse,  which  she  afterward 


THE    OGILVIES.  381 

remembered  with  comfort,  Katharine  asked — nay,  implored 
him  to  stay  at  Summerwood ;  but  lie  refused  somewhat 
angrily. 

"  I  never  want  you  to  give  up  your  pleasures,  Katharine, 
and  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  interfere  with  mine.  We 
don't  care  for  one  another — don't  let  us  pretend  that  we 
do.     Let  us  eacli  go  our  own  way." 

"Be  it  so,"  answered  the  wife,  solemnly.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  last  links  of  aifection  and  duty  were  then  toi'ii  from 
her,  and  she  were  cast  helplessly  upon  the  wide  world  of 
desolation,  misery,  or  sin. 

She  began  to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  Hugh  went  to  the 
hall  door,  seeking  for  his  hat  and  whip.  Then  he  turned 
round  and  hesitated. 

"  You're  not  gone,  Katharine,  are  you  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  here." 

"  Because  we  may  as  well  say  good-by  now,  for  I  sha'n't 
be  home  until  midnight,  and  I  shall  start  at  daylight  to- 
morrow. So  give  me  your  hand,  Katharine.  Forgive  and 
forget.  Perhaps  we  shall  get  on  better  together  when  I 
come  back  again.     We'll  ])art  friends  now,  at  all  events." 

She  went  up  to  him,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
kissed  liim  of  lier  own  accord.  In  times  to  come,  the  re- 
membered action  proved  a  balm  for  many  a  conscience- 
sting. 

Then — tliey  parted. 


382  THE    OGU-VIES. 


CIIAPTEII  L. 

My  breast  is  pressed  tu  thine,  Alice, 

My  arm  is  round  thee  twined  ; 
Thy  breath  dwells  on  my  lips,  Alice, 

Like  clover-scented  wind. 
Love  glistens  in  thy  sunny  ce, 

And  blushes  on  thy  brow, 
Earth's  heaven  is  here  to  thee  and  me, 

For  we  are  happy  now. 

My  hand  is  on  tliy  heart,  Alice, 

Sae  place  thy  hand  in  mine ; 
Now  welcome  weal  or  woe,  Alice, 

Our  love  we  canna  tine. 
Ae  kiss  !  let  otliers  gatlier  gowd 

Frae  ilka  land  or  sea ; 
My  treasure  is  the  ricliest  yet, 

For,  Alice,  I  hae  thee  I — Houert  Nicol. 

In  a  few  days  Eleanor  began  to  feel  the  delicious  dreamy 
calm  of  wakinc;  from  sickness  to  convalescence — fi-om  an- 
guish  to  hope.  Though  still  Philip  came  not,  she  felt  sure 
that  he  would  come,  speeded  by  the  love  which  she  doubt- 
ed not  lay  deep  in  his  heart  still.  If  ever  there  was  a  liv- 
ing embodiment  of  faith — woman's  faith — it  was  Eleanor 
Ofilvie.  She  had  been  all  her  life  full  of  trust  in  every 
human  creature.  It  is  the  wavering,  the  doubtful,  who 
dream  of  change ;  it  is  the  inconstant  only  who  dread  in- 
constancy. 

She  lay  for  hours  together  on  her  conch  beside  the  draw- 
inf-room  window,  with  her  meek  hands  folded,  and  her 
eyes,  now  calm  as  of  old,  though  a  little  more  thoughtful, 
watching  the  little  clouds  floating  over  the  sky.  Then, 
with  the  almost  child-like  interest  that  very  trifles  give  to 
one  who  is  recovering  from  severe  illness,  she  would  look 
at  the  many  gifts  of  flowers  or  fruit  which  she  was  daily 
receiving,  every  one  of  which  showed  how  dearly  Eleanoi- 
was  loved.     She  seemed  to  have  passed  out  of  that  terrible 


THE    OGILVIES.  383 

darkness  into  a  world  tliat  -was  full  of  love.  In  this  deep 
peace  she  rested  as  a  child  lies  dreaming  in  the  sunshine — 
not  pondering  whence  it  came,  or  how  long  it  would  last, 
simply  rejoicing  in  it.  She,  opening  her  full  heart  to  all, 
felt  love  continually  around  her — God's  love  and  man's ; 
she  rejoiced  therein,  and  her  every  thought  was  a  mute 
thanksgiving.  Blessed, thrice  blessed  are  they  whose  souls 
thus  turn  heavenward, not  in  sorrow  alone,  but  also  in  glad- 
ness. And  surely  the  sacrifice  of  a  happy  spirit  must  be 
acceptable  unto  Him,  who  only  suiiers  us  to  walk  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes  for  a  time,  that,  so  chastened,  He  may  lift 
us  to  His  presence  with  exceeding  joy. 

It  was  the  still  hush  of  an  autumn  afternoon  when  Philip 
reached  Snnmierwood.  He  came  into  Eleanors  presence 
alone.  She  had  fallen  asleep :  there  was  a  quiet  smile  play- 
ing round  her  lips,  as  though  she  were  dreaming  happily. 
It  was  so  indeed,  for  the  dream  had  borne  her  to  the  pleas- 
ant palace  garden.  She  sat  underneath  the  old  cherry-tree, 
listening  to  the  rustling  of  its  leaves  and  scented  blossoms. 
She  heard  Philip's  voice;  she  felt  the  clas];»  of  Philip's  hand; 
and  then — oh  blessed  wakino-! — she  found  the  dream  Avas 
true !  He  knelt  beside  her  couch,  gazing  upon  her,  almost 
weeping  over  her. 

"  Philiji — my  Philip — you  are  come  ;  I  knew  3'ou  Avould 
come  at  last  !" 

Again,  as  on  the  night  of  their  parting,  she  extended  her 
loving  arms.  He  did  not  dash  them  from  him  now — he 
clasped  them  wildly  round  his  neck,  though  he  could  not 
speak  one  word.  The  next  moment  she  was  nestling  in  his 
breast. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  broke  that  blessed  si- 
lence.    At  last  Eleanor  looked  up  in  his  face  and  said, 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me  now,  Philip?  You  know 
all  ?" 

"  I  know  noticing  but  that  I  am  here,  beside  you,  holding 
you  fast — fast !  Oh,  Eleanor,  neither  life  nor  death  shall 
take  you  away  from  me  !  Say  that  it  shall  be  so — that 
nothing  on  earth  shall  ever  part  us  more." 

R2 


384  THE    OGILVIES. 

And,  softly  answering,  came  to  Philip's  ear  the  words 
which  to  sorrow  are  a  knell,  to  love  a  deep  anthem  of  per- 
petual joy — "  Never  more — never  more  !" 

After  a  while  they  began  to  talk  more  calmly.  '"Yon 
have  asked  me  nothing,  Philip,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  feel  how 
kind,  how  tender  this  is — Avhen  you  have  been  so  tried  ; 
but  now  I  must  tell  you  all." 

"  Tell  me  nothing,  my  dearest,  save  that  you  love  me." 

"  You  thouglit  I  did  not  love  you,  Philip  ?"  and  her  eyes 
were  lifted  to  his — a  whole  life's  faith  expressed  in  their 
gaze.     "You  will  not  think  so  any  more?" 

He  made  no  answer — how  could  he?  Oh  blessed  ones  ! 
thus  binding  up  the  hopes  of  a  lifetime  in  this  jierfect  un- 
ion of 

One-thoaglUed,  never-wandering,  guileless  love. 

"Now, Philip,  you  must  listen  to  me  for  a  little — only  a 
little.  We  must  not  have  between  us  even  the  shadow  of 
a  cloud,"  And  she  began  her  tale  slowly  and  cautiously, 
trvino- not  to  mention  Mrs,  Breynton's  name, 

Philip  changed  countenance  at  first.  "Then  there  was 
some  truth  in  the  tale  ?  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  about 
Mr,  Lynedon  ?" 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his:  "Stay  one  moment  before 
you  judge  me.  In  those  happy  days  at  the  palace — for, 
with  all  our  trials,  they  Avere  happy  days — there  was  in  my 
heart  no  thought  of  any  save  one — save  him  who  then  ask- 
ed for  it — ay,  and  had  it  too,  almost  before  he  asked."  And 
a  conscious  blush  and  dimpling  smile  brought  back  to  her 
face  its  long-vanished  playfulness. 

"Eleanor,"  interrupted  her  lover,  fondly,  "  you  look  as 
you  did  long  ago,  when  we  were  girl  and  boy  together  at 
the  palace.  You  will  be  my  own  sunny-faced  little  Nelly 
again  soon." 

"Shall  I?"  and  her  low,  glad-hearted  laugh  echoed  his 
own.     How  child-like  are  happy  lovers  ! 

"  Besides,"  Eleanor  went  on,  gravely,  "  I  did  not  speak 
about  Paul  Lynedon,  because  I  thought  it  scarcely  right. 
All  love  is  sacred;  hopeless  love  most  sacred  of  all.     It 


THE    OGILYIES.  385 

seems  to  me  that  a  Avoman  should  not  betray,  even  to  him 
who  has  her  wliole  heart,  another  who  lias  cast  his  before 
her  in  vain.     You  do  not  think  me  wrong  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  you  are  good  and  true,  and  compassionate  to 
all,  ray  dearest." 

"  Afterward  I  was  most  glad  to  find  that  Mr.  Lynedon 
had  lost  all  joainful  feelings  about  me.  We  met  by  chance 
at  Florence,  and  ao-ain  in  London,  when  we  talked  together 
fi-ankly  and  cordially,  and  he  asked  me  always  to  be  his 
friend.  This  happened  on  that  night  at  my  brother's — that 
sad  night  when — " 

"  How  mad,  how  blind,  how  wicked  was  I !"  cried  Philip. 
Then  he  told  her  all,  passionately  imploring  her  forgiveness 
for  evei-y  doubt,  and  still  more  for  every  harsh  and  unkind 
Avord, 

But  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips :  "  Nay,  you  loved — you 
love  me ;  there  is  no  need  of  forgiveness  between  us. 
Therefore,"  she  added,  softly,  "  in  our  perfect  joy,  we  have 
more  need  to  pardon  those  who  were  imkind  to  us.  Philip, 
my  own  Philip, you  will  listen  to  me  a  little  longer?" 

He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  there,  resting  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  and  holding  both  his  hands,  as  though  she 
would  not  let  him  go  until  her  influence  had  subdued  any 
wrath  he  might  feel,  Eleanor  told  her  l)eti-othed  the  story 
of  his  aunt's  wickedness.  But  she  did  not  call  it  by  that 
harsh  name:  she  spoke  with  most  merciful  tenderness  of 
the  wrong  done  to  both ;  and  spoke  not  of  it  at  all  until 
she  had  reminded  him  of  all  his  childish  days,  of  every  old- 
en kindness  which  could  soften  his  heart  toward  Mi's. 
Breynton. 

Philip  Wychnor  was  of  a  gentle  spirit,  bitt-  he  was  also 
a  man.  He  had  become  one  even  since  Eleanor  had  parted 
from  him.  The  hard  struggle  with  the  world  had  made 
every  passion  in  his  nature  ten  times  stronger.  He  was 
stung  to  the  quick  by  the  discovery  alike  of  the  personal 
wrong,  and  the  deceit  at  which  his  truthful  spirit  revolted. 
Starting  up,  he  ])aced  the  room  in  vehement  anger. 

"And  it  was  for  this  that  I  asked  you  to  stay  with  her, 


386  THE    OGILVIES. 

and  fulfill  the  duties  I  owed !  But  I  owe  her  noue  now ; 
all  is  blotted  out  between  us.  Eleanor,  you  shall  leave  her; 
we  will  neither  of  us  look  upon  her  face  more.  Oh  !  if  she 
had  succeeded — if  I  had  known  the  truth  too  late — I  should 
have  hated — have  cursed  her !" 

Eleanor  gazed  upon  her  lover.  She  saw  in  the  clenched 
hands  and  knotted  brow  a  new  development  of  his  charac- 
ter. For  the  moment  she  sank  back,  pained  and  terrified. 
She  learned  for  the  first  time  that  a  woman  must  be  to  the 
man  she  loves  not  merely  his  joy — his  consolation,  but  the 
softener  of  his  natnre,  the  patient  soother  of  those  stormy 
passions  that  wull  rise  at  times  in  the  best  and  noblest  of 
mankind.  She  must  take  1dm  as  he  is;  bearing  meekly 
with  aught  that  she  sees  wrong,  striving  hopefolly  to  win 
him  to  the  right,  and  loving  him  dearly  through  all.  Elea- 
nor felt  this,  and,  casting  aside  the  Avomanly  supremacy  of 
wooing  days,  she  entered  on  a  wife's  duty  ere  she  bore  a 
Avife's  name. 

She  rose  np  and  tried  to  walk  across  the  room  to  him, 
but  her  feeble  strength  lailed.  "  Philip  !"  she  said,  faintly, 
"I  am  very  weak  still.  I  can  not  reach  you.  Will  you 
come  and  sit  by  me  again  ?" 

He  did  so,  still  uttering  many  words  of  suppressed  anger. 
But  he  suffered  her  to  take  his  hand  Avith  a  soft,  firm  clasp. 
She  would  not  let  it  go  again,  but  pressed  it  close  to  her 
heart,  as  though  the  peace  and  forgiveness  there  would  thus 
pass  into  her  lover's.  Yet  she  did  not  attempt  to  speak 
for  a  long  time.     At  last  she  whispered, 

"  Philip,  when  the  future  comes  which  we  have  lioped 
for  all  our  lives,  and  to  which  we  now  look  forward  as  a 
near  reality,  feliink  how  liappy  Ave  shall  be — so  happy  that 
Ave  ought  to  pray  that  all  the  world  may  be  happy  too ! 
And  Avhen  we  grow  old  together — still  loving  one  another, 
until  time's  changes  come  so  lightly  that  we  fear  them  not 
— then  we  sliall  feel,  much  more  than  Ave  do  noAV,  Avhat  a 
terrible  thing  must  be  an  old  age  lonely  and  Avithout  love. 
We  could  not,  even  though  Avronged,  infiict  this  bitter  des- 
olation on  her." 


THE    OGILVIES.  387 

"  Eleanor,  Avhy  do  you  speak  thiisi^  What  do  you  wish 
me  to  do?  But  I  can  not  do  it — it  is  impossible.  I  will 
not — I  ought  not !"  he  continued,  without  waiting  for  her 
answer. 

She  did  not  contradict  him, but  only  said  softly,  "Do  you 
think  we  could  be  quite  happy  even  in — in  our  own  dear 
home — "  She  hesitated,  faintly  blushing,  but  repented  not 
the  words  when  she  saw  how,  on  hearing  them,  his  counte- 
nance relaxed,  and  his  firm-set  lips  trembled  with  emotion. 
"Could  we  be  quite  happy  even  there," she  repeated, "when 
we  must  forever  forget  those  old  days  at  the  palace,  and 
think  that  there  was  one  name,  once  loved  by  both,  which 
we  could  not  utter  more  ?  We,  too,  who  have  neither  fa- 
ther nor  mother  to  claim  the  duty  which  we  once  hoped 
to  pay  to  her?  Let  us  pay  it  still,  Philip,"  she  continued, 
finding  that  no  bitter  answer  came,  and  that  the  hand  she 
held  pressed  hers  convulsively.  "Let  us  place  no  bar  be- 
tween us  and  the  past — let  us  have  no  sliadow  of  regret  to 
dim  our  happiness.  Philip,  dearest,  best — in  whom  I  trust 
and  have  trusted  all  my  life — forgive  her  !" 

"I  would — I  would — if  this  wrong  were  only  against  my- 
self But  you — my  darling  ! — you,  who  tended  her  like  a 
daughter — she  had  no  pity  on  you." 

"  She  knew  not  what  she  was  doing;  I  feel  sure  she  loved 
me  all  the  Avhile.  And  now,  oh  Philip  !  if  you  could  see 
her  repentance — her  tears!  At  the  thought  of  your  com- 
ing she  wept  like  a  child.  And  she  is  so  changed — so  fee- 
ble, so  old  !     Philip,  look — look  there  !" 

She  pointed  to  the  lawn  beneath  the  windoAV.  There, 
creeping  slowly  along  in  the  autumn  sunshine  was  a  stoop- 
ing, aged  woman,  who,  even  with  the  aid  of  the  servant  on 
whose  arm  she  leaned,  appeared  to  move  wearily  and  pain- 
fully. 

Philip  started  up,  "  Is  that  Aunt  Breynton — poor  Aunt 
Breynton  ?" 

"  It  is,  indeed  !  See  how  feebly  she  walks,  even  with 
Davis's  arm.  Poor  faithful  Davis  is  herself  Q-rowino-  old, 
but  her  mistress  has  no  one  else.     And,  Philip — dear  Pliil- 


3S8  THE    OGILVIES. 

ip,  your  arm  is  so  strong  !  Think  liow  Ave  two  are  entering 
lite — a  life  full  of  love,  hope,  and  joy — while  she — " 

"Hush !  hush,  darling — say  no  mor^."  He  pressed  a  kiss 
on  her  forehead,  and  was  gone  from  the  room.  The  next 
minute  she  saw  him  walking  quickly  down  the  lawn.  Elea- 
nor could  look  no  more ;  she  sank  down  on  the  pillow,  and 
wept  tears  more  holy,  more  joyful,  than  even  those  so  late- 
ly shed  in  reconciled  love  on  Philip's  bosom. 

Her  work  was  done.  It  Avas  chronicled  by  no  human 
tongue — noted  by  no  human  eye.  Only  when,  a  few  Aveeks 
after,  she  sat  Avith  Philip  and  Philip's  aunt,  listening  to  the 
reading  of  the  Holy  Book,  which  sounded  holier  still  in  the 
Sabbath  silence  of  the  old  Cathedral,  Eleanor  heard  the 
words, 

"  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,  for  they  shall  inherit  the 
kingdom  of  heaven — " 

With  her,  the  blessedness  had  begun  even  on  earth. 

Yet  a  little  Ave  Avould  fain  linger  with  these  twain  on 
that  day  of  happiness  and  peace ;  we  Avould  fain  see  them 
as  they  talked  in  the  quiet  autumn  evening,  Avatching  the 
sunset,  Eleanor  still  rested  on  her  couch,  Avliile  Philij)  sat 
by  her  side,  her  fingers  wandering  in  his  hair.  She  count- 
ed, laugliingly,  one — t avo — three — Avhite  threads  among  the 
fair  silken  curls,  at  Avhich  he  seemed  to  murmur  greatly, 
seeing  he  Avas  not  thirty  yet.  But  they  had  no  fear  of 
growing  old  now. 

They  talked  of  all  Avhich  had  chanced  to  Philii)  during 
these  years  of  varied  fortune.  He  told  her  of  the  phases 
through  Avhich  his  mind  had  passed,  of  the  new  life  that 
had  daAvned  within  him,  and  of  the  earnest  aim  Avith  Avhich 
he  now  folloAA'ed  an  author's  calling,  Eleanor  saw  tliat  to 
him  there  had  come  a  change — or,  rather,  less  a  change  than 
a  groAvth.  He  had  risen  to  the  full  strength  of  a  man — and 
a  man  of  genius  ;  he  Avas  conscious  of  it  too,  and  the  high 
and  noble  ambition  born  of  such  consciousness  Avas  in  him 
almost  as  sti-ong  as  love  itself  His  betrothed  felt  this,  but 
the  knoAvledge  gave  her  no  pain.  Her  Avoman's  heart,  to 
which  love  was  all,  could  at  first  scarcely  comprehend  the 


THE    OGILVIES.  389 

mystery;  but  ere  long  it  would  all  grow  plain,  she  knew. 
The  most  tender  and  high-hearted  woman,  on  whom  falls 
the  blessed  but  trying  destiny  to  be  the  wife  of  one  en- 
dowed with  Heaven's  great  gift  of  genius,  must  ever  feel 
that  there  are  depths  in  his  soul  into  which  she  can  not 
look  —  depths  which  are  open  only  to  the  eye  of  God, 
Shame  be  to  her  if  her  mean,  jealous  love  should  desire  to 
engross  all,  or,  standing  between  him  and  the  Infinite  to 
which  he  aspires,  should  wish  to  darken  with  one  earthly 
shadow  the  image  of  the  divine  ! 

Thus  they  together  held  glad  yet  thoughtful  converse, 
as  Avas  meet  for  those  who  would  soon  enter  on  life's  jour- 
ney hand-in-hand.  They  talked  but  little  of  their  worldly 
future,  since  it  was  all  plain  before  them  now,  and  both  had 
far  hischer  thousjhts  t>han  counting  of  gold  and  silver  store, 
and  planning  a  luxurious  home.  Once  only  Philip  called 
her  "  his  fair  heiress,  his  rich  Eleanor,"  and  asked  smilingly 
whether  the  world  would  not  contemn  her  for  marrying  a 
poor  author. 

But  she  only  smiled  in  return.  The  love  between  them 
was  so  perfect  that  which  gave  or  which  received  mattered 
not.     The  act  was  merely  a  name. 

Then  the  twilight  grew  dimmer,  the  room  darkened,  and 
through  the  window  whence  they  had  gazed  on  the  sunset 
they  looked  up  at  a  sky  all  thick  with  stars.  The  words 
of  the  betrothed  pair  became  fewer  and  more  solemn, 
though  tender  still.  From  the  eartlily  path  which  they 
would  tread  together,  their  thoughts  turned  to  the  unseen 
world  beyond.  Most  blessed  they,  whose  love  feared  no 
parting  even  there  ! 

They  spoke  —  ay,  amidst  their  deep  happiness  —  they 
spoke  of  this;  and  tlien  there  came  upon  their  lips  a  few 
beloved  names,  whose  sound  had  passed  from  earth  to  heav- 
en. The  mother,  could  she  have  bent  down  from  the  eter- 
nal home,  might  have  heard  that,  even  amid  this  blessed- 
ness, her  child  remembered  her;  and  the  young  spirit,  so 
early  taken,  might  liave  rejoiced  to  know  that  the  thought 
of  poor  Leigh  lingered  in  his  friend's  fond  memory  still. 


590  THE    OGILVIES. 


Tims,  folded  closely  heart  to  heart,  Philip  and  Eleanor 
looked  up  to  the  starry  sky,  and  thanked  Heaven  for  the 
love  that  would  bless  and  brighten  earth,  until  it  attained 
its  full  fruition  in  eternity. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

Thus  it  was  always  M'ith  me  when  with  thee, 

And  I  forget  my  purpose  and  my  wrongs 

In  looking  and  in  loving. 

To  say  that  thou  didst  love  me  ?     Curse  the  air 

That  bore  the  sound  to  me! 

Tliere  is  no  blasphemy  in  love,  but  doubt ; 

No  sin,  but  to  deceive. 

Now  I  forgive  thy  having  loved  another, 

And  I  forgive — but  never  mind  it  iiow  ; 

1  have  forgiven  so  much,  tliere's  notliing  left 

To  make  more  words  about.     Answer  me  not ; 

Let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say.     Then — go ! 

Philip  Bailey. 

Paul  Lynedon  had  been  whirled  through  life  like  a 
stray  autumn  leaf,  the  sport  of  every  breeze  of  impulse  or 
circumstance.  An  instinctive  nobleness  had  kept  him  free 
from  any  great  sin,  and  his  strong  desire  for  the  world's 
good  opinion  served  frequently  to  deter  him  from  smaller 
errors.  But  he  never  did  a  thing  solely  because  it  vas 
rigid.  Interest  and  inclination  were  with  him  motives  far 
more  powerful  than  any  abstract  love  of  virtue. 

Thus  he  suffered  himself  to  be  drifted  idly  on  by  any 
chance  current,  and  had  probably,  during  his  whole  life, 
known  no  fixed  principle  or  real  emotion  until  every  im- 
pulse of  his  being  concentrated  itself  in  passion  for  Katha- 
rine Ogilvie.  Perhaps  the  very  hopelessness  of  this  love 
made  it  ten  times  stronger,  for  there  was  still  in  Lynedon's 
character  that  strange  contradiction  which  caused  every 
thing  to  appear  more  precious  in  the  degree  that  it  seemed 
unattainable. 

Of  the  end  he  never  thought  any  more  than  did  Katha- 
rine.    He  was  not  an  evil-hearted  man  ;  and  if  he  had  been 


THE    OGILVIES.  391 

such,  this  love  had  so  purified  his  nature,  that  against  her, 
at  least,  he  could  not  sin.  He  could  only  cast  his  soul  be- 
fore her,  worshiping,  but  not  daring  by  a  single  glance  to 
ask  for  responsive  love. 

Until  now  !  On  that  early  morning,  when  he  walked  by 
her  side  along  the  avenue  at  Summerwood,  Paul  Lynedon 
had  been  startled  by  the  few  words  which  the  strong  ]icnt- 
up  tide  of  emotion  had  forced  from  Katharine's  lips.  Could 
it  be  that  the  girlish  admiration  over  which  he  had  once 
smiled  complacently — though  he  now  clung  to  its  memory 
with  an  intense  and  lingering  fondness — could  it  be  that 
this  was  indeed  the  dawn  of  a  far  deeper  feeling?  Had 
she  then  loved — and,  oh  blissful  thought,  that  made  his 
heart  leap  with  desperate  joy  !  did  she  now  love  him  ? 

Paul  saw  Katharine  no  more  that  day,  but  there  reached 
him  the  letter  to  Philip  Wychnor,  accompanied  by  a  single 
word,  "  Remember  !"  He  flew  on  his  mission  with  speed. 
That  mission  fulfilled,  he  longed  for  its  reward — a  look,  a 
word,  a  smile;  and  though  without  any  settled  purpose 
save  the  impulse  which  drew  him  continually  to  her  side, 
Paul  Lynedon  found  himself  on  the  road  to  Summerwood. 

There  was  onl}*  one  whose  feet  had  outstripped  even  his 
own — Philip  Wychnor.  But  tlie  bright  sunbeam  of  lioly 
love  traveled  faster  than  the  mad  whirlwind  of  passion. 

Lynedon  came  when  night  was  closing  in.  He  had  dash- 
ed his  horse  along  through  the  still  evening  air ;  he  had 
left  behind  him,  without  one  glance,  the  gorgeous  sunset 
on  which  the  happy  plighted  lovers  had  gazed  so  lingering- 
ly.  But  Paul  saw  nothing  in  earth  or  heaven  save  tlie 
shadowy  image  tliat  flitted  before  him,  beckoning  him  on 
with  the  likeness  of  Katharine's  eyes  and  Katharine's  smile. 
Not  as  these  usually  met  him,  freezing  liim  witli  cold  liaugh- 
tiness,  or  torturing  him  with  wayward  anger,  but  softened, 
tearful,  and  tremulous  with  love.  The  strong  fantasy  al- 
most overwhelmed  him. 

He  stood  within  the  hall  at  Summerwood.  It  was  the 
same  spot — the  dim  old  liall,  hall"  illumined  by  the  lamp. 
Beneath  this  flickering  light  he  had  once  gazed  down  upon 


392  THE    OGILVIES. 

the  girlisli  face,  whose  sorrowful  sweetness  won  from  him 
that  parting  kiss.  It  was  nothing  to  him  then,  but  keenly, 
maddeningly  lie  remembered  it  now. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  the  servant  said,  "  was  engaged  with  par- 
liamentary business  in  the  drawing-room;  Miss  Ogilvie 
Avas  in  the  drawing-room, but  she  saw  no  visitors  as  yet; 
and  Mrs.  Ogilvie — " 

"  Ask  if  Mrs.  Ogilvie  will  see  me  for  a  few  moments ;  and 
meanwhile  I  will  go  in  here." 

He  hiid  his  hand — half  by  chance,  half  througli  a  way- 
ward impulse  that  sprang  from  these  thronging  memories 
of  tlie  past — on  tlie  door  of  the  room  where  Sir  James  had 
died. 

There,  in  tlie  same  arm-chair  where  Paul  had  found  her 
of  old,  sat  Katharine;  but  her  attitude  was  not  as  then — 
that  of  gentle,  musing  grief — it  expressed  the*  utter  aban- 
donment of  despair.  She  leaned  over  the  arm  of  tlie  chair, 
her  head  bowed,  and  her  clasped  hands  stretched  out  rigid- 
ly. So  deep  Avas  the  trance  that  she  heard  not  Paul  Lyne- 
don's  step  until  he  stood  beside  her. 

"  Katliarine  !" 

"  Mr.  Lynedon!  you  dare  to — "  She  sprang  up  and  con- 
fronted him  with  her  gleaming  eyes.  But  the  flasli  passed 
in  a  moment.  "Pardon  me,  but  I  think  you  forget  your- 
self;" and  the  cold,  severe  tone  fell  upon  his  vehemence 
like  ice  upon  fire:  "our  fi'iendship,  or  rather  our  acquaint- 
ance, scarcely  warrants  this  intrusion." 

"Acquaintance,  Mrs.  Ogilvie  !  You  talk  of  acquaintance, 
when — "  But  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  her  look  froze 
liim  into  stone.     He  stopped,  hesitated,  and  was  silent. 

"This  is  a  late  visit.  To  Avhat  may  I  attribute  the 
pleasure  ?" 

For  a  moment  Paul  drew  liimself  up  with  his  old  haugh- 
tiness. "If  I  intrude, perhaps  I — "  But  he  could  not  go 
on  thus,  for  he  was  in  her  presence — he  felt  the  spell  that 
lay  in  every  movement  of  her  hand,  every  rustle  of  her  gar- 
ments. All  his  love  rushed  back  upon  him  like  a  flood. 
"  What  —  what  have  I  done  to  offend  you  ?"  he  cried. 


THE    OGILVIES.  393 

"Have  I  not  been  journeying  day  and  night  to  fulfill  your 
command  ?  I  had  not  thought  our  meeting  would  be  thus. 
If  I  have  done  wrong,  tell  me — and  then,  then — in  mercy 
forgive  me," 

"  For  this  long  and  somewhat  unwarrantable  speech,  cer- 
tainly!" answered  Katharine.  "I  am  not  awai'e  of  aught 
else  of  your  doing  which  is  to  me  of  sufficient  importance 
even  to  need  forgiveness.  And  now  allow  me  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  offices  in  this  m.atter,  and  to  hope  that  you 
also  will  grant  me  pardon  for  having  so  far  encroached  on 
your  courtes}^" 

"  Courtesy!  j'ou  call  it  courtesy!  "Well,  let  it  be  so  ;  you 
will  never,  never  know !"  said  Lynedon,  hoarsely.  He  sank 
on  a  chair  at  a  little  distance,  and  bent  his  lace  from  her 
sight. 

Katharine  looked  upon  him — this  careless,  proud  man — 
as  he  crouched  and  trembled  before  her.  "  I  have  triumph- 
ed— I  triumph  now  !"  she  said  in  her  heart ;  and  its  throbs 
of  glad  vengeance  rose  higher  and  higher,  until  they  sank, 
stilled  by  the  stronger  power  of  love.  But  she  dreaded 
the  calm  and  the  silence  more  tlian  the  storm. 

"Mr.  Lynedon,"  she  said,  speaking  less  coldly,  but  broken- 
ly and  hurriedly,  "I  will  not  detain  you  here;  I  am  not 
well ;  I  have  suffered  so  much." 

"You  are  ill?  you  suffer?"  and  he  sprang  to  her  side. 
She  moved  away  from  him;  not  pointedly,  but  firmly. 

''  It  is  nothing ;  merely  caused  l)y  anxiety  on  my  sister's 
account.     You  do  not  ask  about  her." 

"Pardon  me  ;  I  think  of  nothing  excej^t — except — " 

"  She  is  recovering,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  turning 
away  from  his  gaze  of  wild  ibndness ;  "  and  lest  there 
should  seem  any  thing  strange  in  tliis  mission  which  you 
have  kindly  accomplislied,  I  think  it  due  both  to  Eleanor 
and  myself  that  I  should  acquaint  you  with  its  reason.  It 
may  give  you  surprise,  perhaps  unwelcome  surprise" — and 
the  tone  grew  cold  and  scornful  once  more — "  to  learn  tliat 
Mr.Wychnor  and  my  sister  have  been  affianced  lovers  for 
years." 


394  TUE-OGILYIES. 

"Indeed!  I  half  thought — that  is,  I  guessed.  Of  course 
I  am  most  delighted,"  was  Lynedon's  somewhat  confused 
answer. 

Katharine's  piercing  eyes  were  upon  him.  "  You  need 
not  use  idle  compliments ;  you  need  not  let  your  tongue 
belie  you  again,"  she  said,  vainly  striving  against  the  storm 
of  ano:er  that  was  once  more  broodinc;.  "It  shows  small 
respect  for  Eleanor  when  her  sometime  lover  condescends 
to  a  needless  falsehood  in  order  to  conceal  his  love." 

Lynedon  staggered,  as  though  every  word  uttered  by 
that  low,  clear  voice  had  been  an  ari'ow  in  his  breast. 
"Love!  you  think,  then,  that  I  loved  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 
Listen — " 

"  Nay,  it  requires  no  excuse." 

"And  I  give  none;  but  I  speak  to  you — you,  Katharine. 
If  you  could  slay  me  with  that  look,  I  would,  I  will  call  you 
so.  Listen,  Kathai'ine  —  still  Katharine!  I  came  liere, 
first,  a  mere  dreamer,  with  the  years  of  a  man  and  the  folly 
of  a  boy:  your  cousin's  sweetness  pleased  me;  her  indiffer- 
ence spurred  me  on  to  an  idle  fancy.  Men  have  many  such 
which  they  call  love,  as  I  did,  until  the  true  love  comes  !  I 
know  now,  to  my  misery — to  my  despair — I  know  what  it 
is  to  love  .^" 

He  paused  a  moment.  Katharine's  eyes  turned  fearfully 
to  the  closed  door, as  though  in  flight  alone  would  slie  sa\e 
herself  from  the  gathering  doom.  But  her  strength  failed  ; 
she  sank  lielplessly  on  the  chair. 

Lynedon  stood  over  her,  his  impetuous  words  pouring  on 
her  ear  like  a  torrent  which  sIjc  could  neither  resist  nor 
control. 

"  You  must,  you  shall  hear  me  yet.  I  tell  you  that  I 
know  now  wliat  love  is.  Love!  love!  the  word  i-ings  ever 
in  my  brain,  my  senses,  my  soul!  WIio  taught  it  me? 
When  I  had  passed  my  youth — when  my  heart  had  grown 
cold  witli  its  dull  ])ulses  of  five-and-tlnrty  years — who  was 
it  that  put  life  therein — fearful,  torturing,  and  yet  most 
glorious  life?  If  heaven  and  hell  stood  between  us,  I  must 
cry  out,  as  I  do  now.  Take  this  life  which  you  brought ;  it 


THE    OGILVIES.  395 

is  yours,  all  yours,  for  I  love  you — I  love  you,  Katharine 
Ogilvie  !" 

lie  sank  at  her  feet,  and  kissed  passionately,  not  her 
hands,  though  they  lay  passive  and  cold  on  her  knee,  but 
her  very  dress.  The  impetuous  speech  once  ended,  he 
dared  not  even  lift  his  eyes ;  he  trembled  lest  her  first  word 
should  crush  him  in  the  dust.  But  that  word  did  not  come; 
she  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"  Katharine,"  he  went  on — and  his  tone  sank  from  vehe- 
mence to  the  deepest  murmur  of  tenderness — "  Katharine, 
forgive  me.  I  am  so  wretched  ;  I  have  no  hope  in  heaven 
or  earth  but  you.  Think  what  a  fearful  thing  it  is  for  me 
to  love  you  thus — you  Avho —  But  I  dare  not  speak  of 
that.  Nay,  you  need  not  draw  your  hand  away  ;  I  shall 
not  take  it.  I  ask  nothing,  hope  for  nothing  ;  only  do  not 
spurn  me — do  not  drive  me  from  you  !" 

She  moved,  and  looked  down  upon  him  for  an  instant, 
but  in  her  eyes  there  was  less  of  love  than  of  terror.  lie 
met  them  still,  and  drew  from  them  courage. 

"I  say  not.  Love  me  as  I  love.  You  do  not — you  can 
not.  Only  be  merciful  and  gentle  to  me,  for  the  sake  of 
those  old  times.  Have  you  forgotten  them,  Katharine  ? 
how  here,  in  this  very  room,  in  this  very  chair,,you  sat,  and 
I  comforted  you?  You  were  scarcely  more  than  a  child, 
though  you  were  dear  to  me  even  then — why,  1  knew  not. 
Katharine  !  my  Katharine  !  do  you  remember?" 

"Remember?"  She  started  up,  silent  and  trembling  no 
more.  "Yes,  I  do  remember;  and,  now  that  the  time  has 
come,  you  shall  know  all.     Listen,  Paul  I" 

"  You  call  me  Paul  !  Oh,  kindest  and  dearest,  3'ou  call 
me  Paul !"  murmured  Lynedon. 

^^  Again,  Paul  /  though  after  this  night  the  name  shall 
never  pass  my  lips.  You  speak  truly:  I  was  a  child — a 
happy  child — until  i/on  came.  You  came,  with  your  win- 
ning words,  your  subduing  tenderness;  you  made  me  be- 
lieve it  all — me,  a  simple  gii-1,  gifted,  to  my  misery,  with  a 
woman's  heart!  See, I  speak  without  a  blush  or  a  sigh — • 
these  are  past  now.     Paul  Lynedon,  I  loved  you  then — I 


396  THE    OGILVIES. 

have  loved  yoii  all  my  life  through — I  love  you  now,  dearly, 
dearly  !  But  I  tell  you  this  for  the  first  time  and  the  last, 
tor  you  shall  never  look  on  my  face  more." 

"  Katharine,  have  mercy !" 

"You  had  none  !  Oh,  why  did  you  deceive  me?  Why 
did  your  lips  speak  falsely — ay,  more  than  speak  ?"  And 
Katharine  shuddered.  "  Why  did  your  hand  write  what 
your  heart  felt  not  ?  And  I,  who  loved,  who  trusted  jow 
so,  until  I  heard —  But  I  can  not  think  of  it  now — it  drove 
me  mad  !  Now,  when  we  might  have  been  so  hapi^y,  it  is 
too  late  !  too  late  !" 

Her  voice  sank  into  a  low,  broken  vv'eeping.  There  was 
a  silence — a  terrible  silence — and  then  Katharine  felt  her 
hand  drawn  in  his.     She  snatched  it  away  with  a  cry. 

"Ah  !  you  can  not — you  dare  not  take  my  hand  !  See  ! 
see !"  Slie  pointed  to  the  golden  symbol  it  bore — the  wed 
ding-ring  ! 

Lynedon  sprang  madly  to  his  feet.  "  Katharine,  there  is 
no  pity  in  heaven  or  earth  for  us — I  say  its,  because  you 
love  me.  I  know  it  now  ;  I  see  it  in  your  anger  as  in  your 
tears — those  blessed  tears  !  Oh,  Katharine,  I  can  not  weep, 
but  I  could  pour  out  my  heart's  blood  for  you  !" 

Again  he  paused,  and  then  went  on  speaking  in  a  low, 
rapid  whisper.  "  Tell  me — for  I  know  nothing — nothing, 
except  that  I  am  almost  mad ! — tell  me  wliat  we  must  do. 
Shall  I  end  all  this  ?  Katiiarine,  my  lost  Katharine  !  shall 
I  die  V" 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  And  she  unconsciously  seized  his  hands. 
"  Hush  !  be  calm  ;  let  me  think  a  moment." 

She  began  to  talk  soothingly,  leaning  over  him  the  while, 
and  trying  to  sjieak  in  quiet  and  gentle  tones. 

Then  Paul  Lynedon  forgot  all — honor,  duty,  even  love; 
for  the  love  that  would  destroy  is  unworthy  of  the  name. 

"  Dearest,"  he  murmured,  "  the  world  shuts  us  out,  or  wiU 
do  soon.  It  may  be  that  Heaven  is  more  merciful  than 
man.  Let  us  try  !  Let  us  go  far  away  together — to  some 
lar.a  beyond  the  seas — to  some  happier  Edeu  where  our 
love  is  no  longer  sin  !" 


THE    OGILVIES.  397 

Katharine  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  with  a  frenzied, 
incredulous  gaze.  Tlien  she  iinclasped  his  hand,  whicli  had 
once  more  taken  hers,  flung  it  from  her,  and  sprang  upriglit. 

''Paul  Lynedon,!  know  you  now  !  You  have  darkened 
my  peace — you  liave  j^oisoned  my  youth — you  have  made 
me  a  scorn,  a  loathing  to  mj'self ;  but  you  shall  not  slay 
my  souk     Go — go  from  my  sight  forever  !" 

He  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  kissing  her  dress,  hev 
feet,  but  there  was  no  relenting.  Slic  stood,  with  lifted 
hand,  pointing  to  the  door — moveless,  silent,  stern. 

"I  will  obey  you — I  will  go,"  he  cried  at  last.  "I  will 
never  cross  your  path  again.  Only  forgive  me  !  One  word 
— one  look — to  say  farewell !" 

But  there  she  stood,  immovable  in  her  stony  silence.  Be- 
neath it  his  own  passionate  heart  grew  still  and  cold.  He 
rose  up,  pressed  his  lips  once  more  to  her  garment's  hem, 
and  then  crept  humbled  from  her  sight.  The  duor  closed, 
and  Katharine  was  alone. 

That  night  there  came  a  messenger  to  Summerwood  with 
tidings  awful  indeed  !  Death  had  struck  the  young  heir  in 
the  midst  of  his  careless  sports.  Death!  sudden  death! 
occasioned  unwittingly  by  his  own  hand.  Poor  Hugh — • 
kind-hearted,  good-natured  Hugh,  was  brought  home  to 
Summerwood  dead ! 

Katharine  Ogilvie  was  a  widow. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

'Twere  sweet  to  think  of — sweeter  still 
To  hope  for — that  this  blessed  end  soothes  up 
The  curse  of  the  beginning ;  but  I  know 
It  comes  too  late. — Robert  Browning. 

It  was  all  over,  and  the  unloving  wife  was  free  ! 

Free  !  when  she  was  haunted  perpetually  by  an  averi- 
ging  voice, bringing  back  to  her  memory  the  false  marriage- 
vow — so  rashly  taken,  so  nearly  broken — the  duties  unful- 
filled— the  aflection  unvalued,  and  requited  with  scorn.     It 


398  THE    OGILVIES. 

was  a  fearful  picture  of  a  wasted  life — wasted  by  the  one 
witlierinof  shadow — the  fatal  love  ! 

By  night  and  day  the  young  widow  watched  beside  her 
husband's  coffined  remains.  Father,  mother,  friends,  went 
away  weeping,  and  saying  to  one  another,  "See  how  dear- 
ly she  loved  liim  !"  But  Katharine  shuddered  to  hear  them, 
knowing  it  was  less  grief  she  felt  than  a  bittci",  gnawing 
remorse,  which  cried  ever  aloud,  "It  is  too  late  —  too 
late  !" 

She  tliought  of  her  childish  days — of  Hugh's  old  tender- 
ness, so  constant  and  yet  so  humble — of  his  patience  and 
forbearance  during:  their  brief  married  life.  Throughout 
tliat  married  life  she  had  met  her  husband's  unsuspicious 
gaze,  knowing  that  she  carried  in  her  heart  a  secret  that 
would  destroy  his  peace  forever.  And  when  the  end  came, 
she  had  suffered  Paul  Lynedon  to  kneel  at  her  feet,  giving 
and  receiving  the  confession  of  unholy  love.  She  had  felt, 
with  that  love,  tlie  glow  of  hatred  toward  the  one  who 
stood  between  her  and  happiness.  Nay,  there  had  darted 
across  her  mind  the  thought,  scarcely  formed  into  a  wish, 
that  some  strange  fate  Avould  set  her  free.  And  even  then 
the  thought  was  accomplished.  She  had  withstood  the 
tempter,  she  had  kept  her  marriage-vow,  and  yet  she  felt 
almost  lilvc  Hugh's  murderess.  At  times  her  bewildered 
mind  strove  to  palliate  the  wrong  by  the  selfsame  plea. 
She  remembered  that  Lynedon's  passionate  words  had  been 
poured  into  the  cars  of  a  widow — not  a  wife  ;  and  that  she 
herself,  in  repulsing  them,  had  kept  faithful — even  to  the 
dead. 

"And  I  will  still  be  faithful !"  she  cried.  "Oh, my  hus- 
band !  if  I  have  sinned  against  you,  accept  the  atonement ! 
Never,  never  shall  my  hand  clasp  his — never  shall  Hugh's 
widow  become  Paul  Lynedon's  bride !  Husband  !  if  I  sac- 
rificed your  peace,  I  will  offer  up  myself  with  my  life's  hope 
as  an  atonement  on  vour  grave  !" 

Strong  was  the  remorse  that  prompted  the  words — deep 
was  the  shame  that  uttered  them  ;  but  stronger  and  deep- 
er than  either  remorse  or  shame  was  the  undying  love 


THE    OGILVIES.  399 

which  had  created,  and  yet  ruiued,  the  life-destmy  of  Kath- 
arine OiJ'ilvie. 

Huo-h  rested  in  the  little  church  at  Summerwood  beneath 
a  gorgeous  monument.  Sir  Robert  had  de^jlored  less  the 
death  of  an  affectionate  son-in-law  than  the  extinction  of  a 
baronetcy  two  hundred  years  old.  This  antiquity,  chron- 
icled in  golden  letters  beneath  the  weeping  marble  cheru- 
bim for  the  benefit  of  ages  to  come,  was  at  least  some  slight 
consolation  to  the  bereaved  fatlier-in-laAV. 

Eleanor  wept  many  an  affectionate  tear  over  the  brother 
who  was  so  different  from  herself,  and  with  whom,  through 
life,  she  had  held  little  intercourse.  And  then  she  went 
away  from  Summerwood  to  fulfill  once  more  the  self-as- 
sumed duties  of  a  daughter  until  they  should  merge  iu 
those  of  a  wife. 

All  the  long  winter  Katharine  spent  yi  solitude.  "Atone- 
ment— atonement !"  was  the  cry  of  her  anguished  spirit, 
and  she  strove  to  work  out  that  penance  by  shutting  from 
her  heart  every  thought  save  the  memory  of  her  husband 
— every  pleasure  save  that  which  grew  out  of  duties  ful- 
filled. The  mother  mourned  no  longer  over  her  careless 
dauirhter;  Katharine  tended  her  with  a  contrite  tenderness 
that  was  almost  painful  to  behold.  She  clung  with  a  ve- 
hement intensity  to  this  pure  love,  the  only  one  on  which 
her  memory  dared  rest  in  the  past — the  only  one  to  which 
she  looked  for  comfort  in  the  future. 

So  she  lived,  binding  down  every  impulse  in  her  nature 
with  an  iron  will,  born  of  remorse.  She  imitated  the  mar- 
tyrs of  old,  who  thought  to  win  pardon  by  inflicting  on 
themselves  a  living  death.  But  they  only  tortured  the 
body;  Katharine  did  penance  with  the  soul.  The  conflict 
was  vain,  for  it  sprang  from  remorse,  not  penitence.  Her 
sorrow  could  not  wash  away  the  suffering  or  the  sin,  for 
the  drops  that  fell  were  not  tears,  but  fire. 

Since  the  time  when  she  dismissed  him  from  her  pres- 
ence, Katharine  had  never  heard  of  Paul  Lynedon.  It  was 
her  prayer — the  pi-ayer  of  her  lips,  at  least — that  she  might 
never  see  him  more.     And  when  the  gloom  of  winter  pass- 

S 


400  THE    OGILVIES. 

ed,  and  the  spring  came  out  upon  the  earth,  creating  vague 
yearnings  after  hope  and  love,  Katharine  still  sought  to 
deaden  them  Avitli  this  prayer.  But  its  very  utterance 
only  made  it  the  more  false.  Evermore,  piercing  through 
remorse,  indignation,  and  shame,  rose  up  the  face  which 
she  had  last  seen  bowed  before  her  in  such  agonizing  plead- 
ing, less  for  love  than  for  j^ardon.  And  one  day  she  saw 
that  face,  not  in  fancy,  but  in  reality. 

She  was  on  her  knees  beside  her  father,  in  the  church  at 
Summerwood.  The  Sabbath  sunshine  slanted  at  once  on 
the  stately  monument  of  lier  husband  and  on  her  own 
drooped  head,liidden  by  the  thick  widow's  veil.  She  lift- 
ed it,  and  beheld  Paul  Lynedon. 

He  sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  churcli,  intently  watching 
her.  As  Katharine  rose,  tlieir  eyes  met,  and  a  numbing 
coldness  crept  through  her  veins.  Still,  she  had  power  to 
answer  the  gaze  with  another,  fixed,  freezing,  proud  ;  and 
then  she  turned  away,  nor  lifted  her  eyes  again,  save  to 
the  marble  tablet  which  chronicled  the  brief  life  of  poor 
Hugh,  She  looked  no  more  toward  Lynedon,  but  she  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her  and  his  influence  around  her.  It  seemed 
to  encompass  her  with  a  dim  confused  mist,  through  v/hich 
she  heard  the  clergyman's  voice  and  the  organ's  sound  in- 
distinctly as  in  a  dream.  In  vain  she  tried  to  break  the 
spell,  driving  her  thoughts  back  to  the  past — to  the  death- 
chamber — to  the  tomb  beneath  her  A'ery  feet,  wliere  tlie 
yoxtng  man  was  laid  in  the  strengtli  of  his  youth,  hidden  in 
darkness  from  the  sunshine  and  the  fresh  breeze,  and  all 
those  pleasures  of  nature  which  he  had  loved  so  well.  She 
gathered  up  every  possible  image  of  pain,  and  pressed  it 
with  a  stony  weight  upon  her  heart,  but  it  could  not  press 
out  thence  the  one  image  which  all  her  life  had  reigned 
paramount  there.  When  she  passed  out  of  the  church, 
clinging  to  her  fathei-'s  arm,  Katharine's  ej'es,  impelled  by 
AH  uncontrollable  power,  looked  back  for  an  instant. 

Lynedon  watched  her.  She  could  not  still  the  rapture 
of  lier  heart — no,  not  though  the  spot  she  stood  upon  was 
her  husband's  grave. 


THE    OGILVIES.  401 

From  that  day  she  knew  that  wherever  she  went  his 
presence  encompassed  her.  If  she  walked,  she  saw  a  figure 
gliding  beneath  the  trees;  if  she  rode,  there  echoed  far  in 
the  distance  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet.  At  night,  when 
all  were  gone  to  rest,  she  heard  beneath  her  window  a  foot- 
step that  paced  there  for  hours  in  the  silence  and  darkness. 
And  Katharine,  who  so  long  ago  had  distinguished  above 
all  others  that  firm,  sIoav,  manly  tread,  knew  that  this 
watcher  by  night  as  by  day  was  no  one  but  Paul  Lynedon. 

Thus  weeks  passed.  She  never  saw  his  face  except  at 
church,  and  then  he  always  kept  aloof  And  though  once 
or  twice  she  unwittingly  looked  that  way,  it  Avas  with  the 
coldness  and  sternness  that  became  the  Avife,  the  widow  of 
Hugh  Ogilvie. 

But  this  could  not  last.  One  moi-ning — it  was  so  early 
that  the  April  dews  yet  glistened  in  the  sunshine — Katha- 
rine took  her  solitary  walk  to  a  glade  in  the  park,  which 
had  been  her  favorite  haunt  in  her  girlhood.  She  had 
brought  him  there  long  ago,  and  they  had  spent  an  hour's 
happy  talk  together,  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree,  half  covered 
with  ivy,  while  she  sang.  Pie  had  carved  thereon  her  in- 
itials and  his  own.  They  were  there  still :  Katharine 
moved  aside  the  ivy  which  had  grown  over  them,  and 
leaned  down,  gazing,  till  her  eyes  were  blinded  with  tor- 
rents of  tears. 

And  then,  emerging  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  slie 
saw  Lynedon  stand  before  her. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  fly,  but  she  had  no  strength; 
and  when  she  looked  at  him  again,  the  intention  was 
changed  into  another  feeling.  lie  was  so  altered,  so  hag- 
gard and  stooping,  that  he  might  have  borne  the  burden 
of  more  than  forty  years.  The  eye  had  grown  wild  and 
restless,  the  brow  was  marked  with  many  a  line,  and  the 
dark,  beautiful  hair  was  threaded  with  gray.  He  stood 
there,  and  only  uttered  one  word — 

"  Katharine !" 

Hearing  it,  she  rose,  and  her  eyes  flashed  through  the 
tears  which  iiUed  them.     "Why  do  you  come  here?  why 


402  THE    OGILVIES. 

do  you  liaunt  my  presence  ?     How  dare  you  cross  my  path 
still  ?" 

But  he  only  answei'ed  to  the  wrath  with  an  accent — ten- 
der,  humble,  despairing — "  Katharine  !" 

Once  nioi'e  she  looked  upon  him,  and  her  tone  softened. 
"  You  must  not  come  here — you  must  leave  me.  Will  you 
go  ?     Then  I  must." 

"  Katharine,  one  woi-d  !" 

"  Do  not  speak — do  not  follow  me.  You  can  not — you 
dtire  not.  Aj',  that  is  well !"  He  moved  aside,  and  she 
passed  on  a  lew  steps,  and  then  turned.  He  had  fallen  on 
the  ivy-covered  tree,  his  head  lying  on  the  spot  where  he 
had  carved  her  name. 

Katharine  could  struggle  no  more.  "  Paul !  Paul !"  and 
she  stretched  out  her  hands. 

He  sprang  forward  and  seized  them,  hut  the  next  mo- 
ment she  had  snatched  them  away  with  a  cry. 

"  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not.  Do  not  speak  to  me — only  go 
from  my  sight." 

''  I  will  go,  if  you  desire.  Only  say  that  you  forgive  me. 
Oh,  Katharine,  if  I  have  sinned,  I  have  suflered  too  !" 

"  VVe  have  both  sinned,  and  we  must  both  suffer;  it  is 
right.     We  must  never  look  on  each  other's  face  again." 

"  Have  you  no  mercy  now,  when  you  are  free — wlien  it 
is  no  crime  in  the  sight  of  earth  or  heaven  for  us  to  love 
one  another?  Katharine,"  he  continued,  catching  her  arm 
and  holding  it  in  his  firm  grasj:), "  I  remember  what  you  said 
to  me  that  night — ay,  every  word — how  you  have  loved  me 
all  your  life.  Yes,  and  you  love  me  still !  I  saw  your  tears 
fall  but  now,  and  I  knew  it  was  at  the  remembrance  of  me. 
See,  you  tremble,  you  shrink  :  Katharine,  you  shall  not  part 
from  me."  And  he  spoke  in  a  low,  desperate  tone.  "I  tell 
you,  whether  it  is  right  or  wrong,  you  shall  be  my  wife." 

She  felt  his  power  upon  her,  gathering  over  her  like  a 
cloud  of  destiny,  through  which  she  could  not  pierce.  She 
remained  so  mute,  so  frozen,  that  Lyncdon  was  terrified. 

"Katharine,  speak  to  me  ;  say  that  I  have  not  angered 
you.     Look  on  me,  and  see  what  I  have  endured.    For  these 


THE    OGILVIES.  403 

weeks  past  I  have  tracked  your  walks  only  to  catch  a 
gurapse  of  your  dress,  or  see  the  print  of  your  footsteps; 
then  at  night  I  have  prowled  like  a  thief  under  your  win- 
dow, watching  while  you  slept.  But  I  dared  not  enter 
your  presence ;  I  would  never  have  done  so,  save  that  I 
saw  you  weeping.     Is  not  this  love ?  is  not  this  penitence?" 

She  looked  at  him  only  once,  but  he  gathered  courage, 
and  went  on,  "  Why  should  we  not  be  happy  ?  If  we 
erred,  you  will  pardon  rae,  and  Heaven  will  forgive  us  both, 
Katharine,  you  shall  bring  back  to  me  my  youth,  you  shall 
make  me  what  you  will ;  we  will  live  over  again  the  hap- 
py past," 

"  Xot  the  past,"  cried  Katharine ;  "  we  have  no  past — we 
dare  not  have." 

"  But  we  have  a  future,  that  is,  if  you  will  listen  to  me, 
and  not  forsake  me.  If  otherwise,  Katharine,  shall  I  tell 
you  what  you  will  do  ?"  And,  as  Paul  stood  over  her,  his 
wild  eyes  sought  hers,  terrifying  her  more  even  than  his 
words :  "  You  will  drive  me  from  you  a  vagabond  on  the 
face  of  the  earth :  there  is  no  evil  which  I  shall  not  com- 
mit, or  else  I  shall  die — die  miserably,  perhaps  by  my  own 
hand." 

"  Xo,  no,  Paul — my  Paul !  You  shall  not  grow  wicked ; 
you  shall  not  die ;  I  will  save  you,  if  I  peril  my  hope  of 
heaven  for  your  sake !"  was  the  bitter  cry  that  burst  from 
Katharine's  heart  and  lips  as  she  clasped  both  his  hands 
and  held  tliem  long,  Aveeping  over  them  passionately. 

Lynedon  made  her  sit  down  on  the  fallen  tree,  while  he 
threw  back  the  veil  from  her  face,  and  removed  from  her 
fair  head,  so  youthful  still,  the  tokens  of  widowhood.  As 
he  did  so,  he  cast  tliem  down  with  a  violent  gesture  and 
trampled  them  under  foot.  Then  he  took  her  hand  and  be- 
gan to  draw  from  it  the  wedding-ring;  but  Katharine  start- 
ed from  him. 

"Paul,  I  am  very  guilty,  but  it  is  for  your  sake;  you 
should  not  torture  me  tluis.  Listen.  When  my  husband 
— hush  !  I  will  call  liim  so  still,  for  lie  was  good  to  me — ■ 
when  my  husband  died,  I  vowed  to  atone  unto  the  dead  for 


404  THE    OGILVIES. 

my  sins  toward  the  living.  I  said  in  my  heart,  solemnly 
and  truly,  then,  that  I  would  never  be  your  wife.  Now  I 
break  that  vow — the  second  I  have  broken  for  you.  Paul, 
it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  have  this  upon  my  soul.  You  must 
be  very  kind  and  tender  to  me — you  must  let  me  wait  a 
year  —  two  years  —  until  all  this  horror  has  passed,  and 
then—" 

"  You  will  be  mine— my  own  wife  ?"  cried  Lynedon,  joy- 
fully. He  knelt  beside  her  on  the  grass,  and  would  have 
folded  her  in  his  arms,  but  Katharine  drew  back. 

"  Not  yet — not  yet,"  she  muttered.  "  It  seems  as  though 
he  stood  between  us — he,  my  husband— he  will  not  let  me 
come  to  you.  This  happiness  will  be  too  late  !  I  know  it 
will." 

And  while  she  spoke  she  drew  her  breath  with  a  deep 
sigh,  and  put  her  hand  suddenly  to  her  heart. 

"What  ails  you,  Katharine,  my  darling?" 

"  Nothing — the  pain  will  pass  soon — I  am  used  to  it. 
Let  me  rest  my  head  here,"  she  answered,  faintly.  He 
stood  by  her  side,  and  she  leaned  against  him  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes.  Then  she  looked  up  with  a  sad,  grave 
smile.  "  I  am  well  now,  tliank  you  !  You  see  I  make  you 
my  comfort  and  support  already." 

"  Dearest,  how  happy  am  I !  May  it  be  ever  so  !"  was 
the  low,  loving  answer.  Her  face  was  hid  from  him,  or  he 
would  have  seen  that  there  passed  over  it  a  spasm  of  agony 
awakened  by  his  words. 

Then  it  was  that  Katharine  felt  the  curse  of  a  granted 
prayer.  The  death  so  madly  longed  for  was  now  a  horri- 
ble doom  !  To  die  in  the  midst  of  j^outh  and  hope — to 
leave  him — to  go  into  the  still,  dark  grave  without  the 
blessing  of  his  love — it  Avas  fearful! 

"  Paul,  Paul,  save  me !"  she  almost  shrieked.  "  Hold  me 
in  your  arms — fast — fast !     Do  not  let  me  die  !" 

He  thought  her  words  were  mere  ravings,  and  asked  no 
questions,  but  soothed  her  tenderly.  After  a  while  she 
spoke  again,  not  wildly,  but  solemnly: 

"  Paul,  a  little  while  since  I  told  vou  that  it  naust  be  a 


THE    OGILVIES.  405 

year  or  more  before  you  made  me  yours.     But  I  shall  not 
live  till  then." 

He  looked  anxiously  on  her  face  and  form.  There  was 
no  outward  sign  of  wasted  health,  so  he  smiled  calmly. 

"  These  fears  are  nothing,  my  Katharine  ;  you  shall  have 
many  happy  years.  I  will  end  all  such  forehodiugs  when 
you  give  me  the  right  to  do  so — when  you  let  me  call  you 
wife." 

"You  may  call  me  so  when  you  will,"  answered  Katha- 
rine, in  a  low  tone.  "A  month,  a  week — ay,  who  knows 
how  soon  the  end  may  come  !  But  I  will  defy  fate  !  Paul 
• — my  Paul — my  only  love  !" — and  she  threw  herself  upon 
his  breast,  clinging  to  him  wildly — "I  will  not  be  torn 
from  you— I  will  live  until  that  blessed  day  !" 

Lynedoij,  only  too  joyful  on  any  terms  to  win  his  bride, 
overwhelmed  her  with  the  outburst  of  his  happiness.  He 
counted  all  her  fears  as  an  idle  dream ;  and,  ere  they  left 
the  dell,  he  had  fixed  the  first  May-morning  for  their  mar- 
riage day. 

"  It  will  indeed  be  May-tiiue  with  us  then,"  he  said,  as 
Avith  an  almost  boyish  fondness  he  leaned  over  her  and 
fastened  her  bonnet.  "And  this  dear  head  shall  have  that 
hateful  veil  no  more,  but  a  bridal  garland." 

"And  afterward  —  afterward!"  murmured  Katharine. 
But  she  drove  back  the  chilling  horror — she  looked  in  the 
glad  face  of  lier  bridegroom — she  leaned  on  his  arm  as  they 
walked  slowly  on,  Avith  sunshine  and  flowers,  and  birds  sing- 
ing every  where  around  them. 

Could  it  be  that  over  all  this  bliss  frowned  the  heavy 
shadow  of  Death  ? 

S2 


40G  THE    OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  LTII. 

Scarce  I  heed 
These  pangs.     Yet  thee  to  leave  is  death — is  death  indeed ! 

******* 
Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulsca  run, 
A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 
Lord  of  my  bosom's  love,  to  die  beholding  tlieel — Campbell. 

Katharine  informed  neither  father  nor  mother  of  her 
approacliing  marriage.  Sir  Robert  would  liave  talked  of 
"  the  honor  of  the  family,"  which  forbade  even  the  most 
desirable  second  union  until  the  days  of  mourning  were 
ended.  And  Lady  Ogilvie,  who  now  rested  tranquilly  in 
the  knowledge  that  she  would  never  be  parted  from  her 
daughter,  would  have  bitterly  murmured  at  the  faintest 
hint  of  separation.  Katharine  knew  all  this,  and  prepared 
for  a  secret  union — unhallowed  by  a  parent's  blessing. 

Only  once,  by  her  earnest  desire,  Lynedon,  almost  against 
his  will,  came  openly  to  Summerwood.  He  spent  a  few 
hours  with  Sir  Robert,  striving  to  act  the  part  of  a  chance 
guest,  and  then  Katharine  brought  him  to  her  mother's 
apartment.  He  sat  down  by  Lady  Ogilvie's  side,  and  talk- 
ed to  her  in  a  tone  so  gentle  and  tender  that  Katharine 
blessed  him  with  her  whole  soul.  She  longed  to  throw  her- 
self at  her  mother's  feet,  beseeching  her  to  take  to  lier  heart 
as  a  son  this  dearest  one  in  wliom  was  centred  her  child's 
every  hope.  But  just  then  Lady  Ogilvie  chanced  to  speak, 
and  her  first  words  made  Katharine's  impulse  change. 

"  Yes,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  am  much  better  than  I 
used  to  be.  It  is  all  Katliarine's  doing;  the  very  sight  of 
her  seems  to  make  me  young  again.  I  feel  quite  different 
since  she  has  come  back  to  live  at  Summerwood.  She  must 
never  leave  me  again." 

Lynedon  made  no  reply.  He  had  long  since  abandoned 
all  false  and  feigning  speech.     Such  could  not  be  uttered 


TUE    OGILVIES.  407 

beneath  Katharine's  eye,  or  witliin  t.io  influence  of  Katha- 
rine's soul. 

Ere  lie  departed,  Paul  took  Lady  Ogilvie's  hand  with 
affectionate  reverence,  and  said  softly,  "I  shall  not  see  you 
again  for  a  little  while.  Will  you  not  bid  me  farewell,  and 
good  speed  on  my  journey  ?  for  it  is  a  sweet  and  solemn 
one  to  me.  And — the  next  time  I  come  to  Summcrsvcod 
it  will  not  be  alone." 

"  What,  Mr.  Lynedon  !  you  arc  going  to  be  married  at 
last?  I  do  not  like  weddings — not  much — but  I  hope  yours 
will  be  a  liappy  one.     And  who  is  your  bride  ?" 

"  You  will  know  soon."  And  Paul  drooped  his  head — 
he  could  not  bear  to  look  in  Lady  Ogilvie's  face.  "  Only, 
dear  friend,  our  wedding  shall  miss  one  happiness.  I  have 
no  mother  to  bless  my  bride.  Let  me  take  her  a  kind  wish 
and  a  blessing  from  you." 

"  Indeed  you  must.  I  am  sure  we  shall  like  her  very 
much,  whoever  she  be — shall  we  not, Katharine?  Good-by, 
Mr.  Lynedon  ;  and  God  bless  you  and  your  wife,  and  give 
you  a  long  and  happy  life  together." 

Paul  Lynedon  kissed  the  hand  that  she  extended  to  him, 
and  was  gone. 

That  night  Katharine  stood  beside  her  sleeping  mother, 
to  take,  in  one  long,  lingering,  tearful  look,  the  farev\'ell 
which  she  could  not  utter.  Yet  it  would  be  but  a  short 
parting ;  for  she  had  made  her  lover  promise  that,  once 
united  beyond  the  chances  of  earthly  severance,  they  should 
both  hasten  to  entreat  forgiveness  and  blessing. 

The  blessing  seemed  on  Lady  Ogilvie's  prophetic  lips 
even  now.  Her  fancy  returned  in  dreams  to  the  tidings 
of  which  she  had  often  spoken  during  the  day ;  and  as 
Katharine  leaned  over  her,  she  heard  licr  mother  repeat 
once  again,  mingled  Avith  a  benediction,  the  name  of  Lyne- 
don. 

It  sounded  like  a  late  hallowing  of  the  love  which  had 
sprung  up  in  such  uncontrolled  vehemence,  and  come  to 
maturity  in  a  passion  that  trembled  on  the  very  verge  of 
crime. 


408  THE    OGILVIES. 

Katharine  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  "  Oh  that 
it  may  indeed  be  so;  that  Heaven  may  forgive  us  both, 
and  sutler  us  to  atone  the  past !  And,  mother,  surely,  re- 
echoing your  words,  I  dare  now  cry  '  God  bless  my  Paul — ■ 
my  own  Paul !'  " 

Lady  Ogilvie  moved  in  her  sleep,  disturbed  by  the  last 
pressure  of  her  daughter's  lips;  and  then,  stealing  one  lin- 
gering farewell  gaze,Katliarine  glided  from  the  room.  Ere 
long,  accompanied  by  an  old,  faithful  servant  who  had  been 
her  nurse,  she  quitted  her  father's  house. 

The  place  chosen  for  the  marriage  was  a  village  some 
miles  distant,  where  the  nurse's  daughter  lived.  Beneath 
the  roof  of  this  little  cottage,  which  in  its  rose-embowered 
beauty  had  been  the  very  paradise  of  her  childhood,  Kath- 
arine spent  the  eve  of  her  second  bridal.  It  was  strangely 
quiet — like  the  first — for  the  intensity  of  suflering  and  of 
joy  are  very  near  akin.  But  Lynedon's  bride  felt  no  ex- 
cess of  joy ;  a  solemn  shadow  hung  over  her  which  she 
could  not  dispel.  Through  it,  she  heard  the  chimes  from 
the  near  church-tower  ring  out  the  passing  of  the  brief 
May-eve  ;  and  then  she  lay  down  and  slept — ay,  slept ! 

She  was  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  rooks,  who  from  their 
lofty  nests  made  merry  music  over  the  old  church-yard. 
Katharine  rose  up,  and  the  first  sight  that  met  her  eyes 
was  the  white  grave-stones  that  glimmered  in  the  yet  faint 
light.  Strange  and  solemn  vision  for  a  bride  on  her  mar- 
riage-morn  !  Katharine  turned  away,  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky.  It  was  all  gray  and  dark,  for  the  shadow  of  the  vil- 
lage church — the  church  where  she  was  to  plight  her  vows 
— came  between  her  and  the  sunrise. 

She  buried  her  head  again  in  the  pillow,  and  tried  to 
realize  the  truth,  that  this  day — tliis  vei-y  day — Paul  Lyne- 
don  would  be  her  husband,  loving  her  as  she  had  once  so 
vainly  loved  him ;  that  she  would  never  part  from  him 
again,  but  be  his  own  wife,  forever  —  through  life  until 
death.  Until  death !  She  thought  the  words,  she  did  not 
say  them,  but  they  filled  her  with  a  cold,  dull  fear.  To 
drive  it  away,  she  arose.     She  would  have  jnit  on  lier  wed- 


THE    OGILVIES,  409 

ding -dress  —  almost  as  a  spell,  that  the  bridal  garment 
might  bring  with  it  happy  bridal  thoughts — but  it  was  not 
in  her  room.  So  Katharine  dressed  herself  once  more  in 
her  widow's  attire,  and  waited  until  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold were  stirring. 

Meanwhile  there  recurred  to  her  mind  a  loving  duty  that 
befitted  the  time.  She  sat  dov>'n  and  wrote  to  her  mother 
a  long,  tender  letter,  not  proud,  but  contrite,  pleading  ibr 
pardon  and  a  kindly  welcome,  less  for  herself  than  for  her 
husband —  Katharine  paused  an  instant.  "  Yes !"  she  said, 
"  he  will  be  my  husband ;  no  earthly  power  can  come  be- 
tween us  now."  Her  pen  traced  the  word  lirmly  ;  the  mere 
writing  of  it  sent  happiness  to  her  heart.  As  she  went  on, 
the  pleading  grew  into  a  confession,  and  she  unburdened 
from  her  soul  the  weight  of  years.  Humbly,  repentantly, 
she  told  of  that  overwhelming  love  which  had  come  upon 
her  like  a  fate,  and  had  haunted  her  through  life  until  it  be^ 
came  its  own  aven2;er.  She  omitted  no  link  in  this  terrible 
history  save  that  one  Avhich  might  bring  shame  upon  him 
wdiose  honor  was  soon  to  be  one  with  hers. 

Katharine  finished  the  letter  all  but  the  signature,  A 
few  hours  more,  and  she  would  write  as  her  own  that  long- 
beloved  name.  The  thought  came  upon  her  with  a  flood 
of  bewildering  joy.  She  leaned  her  forehead  on  the  paper 
in  one  long,  still  pause,  and  then  sprang  up,  pressing  her 
clasped  hands  in  turns  to  her  heaving  breast  and  throbbing 
temples  in  a  delirium  of  rapture  that  was  almost  pain. 

"It  is  true— it  is  all  true!"  she  cried;  "joy  has  come  at 
last.  In  an  hour— one  little  hour,  I  shall  be  his  wife  ;  and 
he  will  be  my  husband — mine  only — mine  forever !" 

As  she  stood,  her  once  drooping  form  Avas  sublimated 
into  almost  superhuman  beauty — the  beauty  which  had 
dawned  with  the  dawning  love.  It  was  the  same  face,  ra- 
diant with  the  same  shining  which  had  kindled  into  passion- 
ate hope  the  young  girl  who  once  gazed  into  the  mirror  at 
Summerwood.  But  ten  times  more  glorious  was  the  love- 
liness born  of  the  hope  fulfilled. 

The  hopefuljilled!     Could  it  be  so,  when,  excited  by  this 


410  THE    OGILVIES. 

frenzied  joy,  there  darted  tlirongh  her  heart  that  warnuig 
pang  ?  She  sank  on  the  bed  almost  senseless.  Above  the 
morning  sounds  without — the  bees  humming  among  the 
roses,  the  swallows  twittering  in  the  eaves  —  Katharine 
heard  and  felt  beating  with  fierce,  loud,  sufl:bcating  throbs, 
the  death-pulse,  which  warned  her  that  her  hours  were  num- 
bered. 

To  die,  so  young  still,  so  full  of  life  and  love— to  sinl< 
from  Lynedon's  very  arms  into  the  grave — to  pass  from 
this  spring  sunshine  into  darkness,  silence,  nothingness !  It 
was  a  liorrible  doom  !  And  it  might  come  at  any  moment 
— soon — soon — perhaps  even  before  the  bridal ! 

"It  shall  not  come!"  shrieked  the  voice  of  Katharine's 
despair,  though  her  palsied  lips  scarcely  gave  vent  to  the 
sound.  "  I  will  live  to  be  his  Avife,  if  only  for  one  week,  one 
day,  one  hour  !  Love  has  conquered  life — it  shall  conquer 
deatli !     I  will  not  die .'" 

She  held  her  breath  ;  she  strove  to  press  down  the  pulsa- 
tions that  stirred  lier  very  garments ;  she  moved  her  cold, 
feeble  limbs,  and  stood  upright. 

"I  must  be  calm — very  calm.  What  is  this  poor  weak 
body  to  my  strong  soul?  I  will  fight  with  death — I  will 
drive  it  from  me.  Love  is  alone  my  life :  while  that  lasts 
I  can  not  die  !" 

But  still  the  loud  beating  choked  her  very  breath  as  she 
moaned,  "Paul,  Paul,  come  !  Save  me,  clasp  me  ;  give  me 
life— life !" 

And  while  she  yet  called  upon  his  name,  Katharine  heard 
from  below  the  voice  of  her  bridegroom.  He  came  bound- 
ing over  the  little  gate,  and  entered  the  rose-porch,  wearing 
a  bridegroom's  most  radiant  mien.  She  saw  him ;  she 
heard  him  asking  for  her ;  a  perceptible  anxiety  trembled 
through  liis  cheerful  tone.  Could  she  cast  over  his  happi- 
ness the  cold  horror  which  froze  her  own  ?  Could  she  tell 
him  that  his  bride  was  doomed  ?  No ;  she  would  smile 
upon  him,  she  would  bring  him  joy,  even  to  the  last. 

"Tell  him  I  am  coming,"  she  said,  in  a  calm,  cheerful 
voice  to  the  nurse,  who  repeated  Lynedon's  anxious  sum- 


THE    OGILYIES.  411 

nions.  And  then  Katharine  bathed  her  temples,  smoothed 
her  hair,  and  went  to  meet  her  bridegroom. 

After  the  tirst  somewhat  agitated  greeting  was  over, 
Lynedon  regarded  lier  uneasily.  "What  is  this,  Katlia- 
rine  ?"  and  he  touched  her  mourning  dress,  which  she  had 
forgotten  to  remove. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  mechanically  followed  the  old 
Eurse,  who  led  her  hastily  away  to  take  olf  the  ill-omened 
garment.  When  she  reapjjeared,  Paul  looked  at  her  admir- 
ingly, smoothed  the  folds  of  her  white  gown,  and  passed 
his  hand  lovingly  over  the  shining  braids  of  her  beautiful 
hair — no  longer  hidden  under  the  widow's  cap. 

"  Xow  you  look  like  a  bride,  though  your  dress  is  t^o  sim- 
ple. But  we  will  have  store  of  ornaments  yet.  Not  a  lady 
in  Eno-land  shall  outshine  rav  Katharine.  And  when  w'e 
have  a  rich,beautiful,  happy  home,  perhaps  some  time  her 
wish  may  come  true,  and  she  may  be  the  wife  of  a  great 
statesman  yet.  But,  darling,  you  shiver  !  How  cold  tliese 
spring  mornings  are  still !" 

He  drew  her  from  tlie  window  and  made  her  sit  down. 
They  Avent  through  the  form  of  breakfast,  in  order  to  jjlease 
the  anxious  mistress  of  the  little  cottage  parlor.  Lynedon 
still  talked  of  his  plans — their  plans,  seeking  few  replies. 
Only  once  he  thought  his  bride  appeared  grave,  and  asked 
her  if  she  were  quite  content — quite  happy. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  turned  toward  him,  her  lips  smiling. 
He  kissed  their  rich  rosy  curves  ;  he  never  looked  at  her 
eyes. 

W^hen  the  hour  approached  they  were  summoned  by  the 
old  nurse,  the  only  Avedding  guest. 

"  Ours  is  a  strange,  informal  marriage,"  said  Lynedon, 
with  a  disappointed  air.  "  But  m'c  Avill  make  amends  for 
it.  When  we  take  our  beautiful  house,  we  will  have  a  mer- 
ry coming  home." 

Katharine  sank  on  a  chair.  "  Hush !  Paul ;  do  not  talk 
to  me — not  now." 

He  might  have  murmured  a  little,  but  the  tone  of  her 
voice  filled  him  with  an  inexplicable  awe.     He  was  rather 


412  THE    OGILVIES. 

agitated,  too,  as  tlie  time  approached.  So  lie  drew  lier  arm 
tliroiigh  his,  and  they  walked  in  silence  through  the  haw- 
thorn-scented lane  that  led  to  the  church. 

At  the  little  wicket-gate  which  formed  the  entrance  to 
the  village  sanctuary  Katharine  paused.  The  church-yard 
was  a  fair  sight.  The  sunshine  sparkled  dazzlingly  on  the 
white  stones,  which  had  looked  so  ghost-like  in  the  dawn  ; 
and  every  green  nameless  hillock  had  its  flower-epitaph 
written  in  daisy-stars.  Many  a  cheerful  sound  pervaded 
the  spot,  for  it  was  bounded  on  one  side  by  several  cot- 
tages, whose  inmates  had  made  this  quiet  resting-place  of 
the  dead  a  garden  for  the  living.  A  narrow  pathway  only 
divided  the  fiower-beds  from  the  graves,  and  among  them 
both  tlie  cottage  children  played  all  day  long.  There  was 
no  yew  nor  cypress  to  cast  gloom  on  the  place,  but  lead- 
ing to  the  church-door  was  an  avenue  of  limes,  in  whose 
fragrant  branches  the  bees  kept  up  a  pleasant  murmur. 
And  tlie  merry  rookery  close  by  was  never  silent  from 
dawn  till  eve.  It  was  a  place  that  made  Death  beautiful, 
as  it  should  be. 

Katharine  looked — and  a  little  of  the  freezing  horror 
passed  from  her.  "It  would  not  be  so  terrible  to  sleep 
here,"  she  whispered,  half  to  herself,  "  with  sunshine  and 
flowers,  and  children's  voices  above.  Van],  lo/ieti  I die'^'' — 
and  she  uttered  the  woi-ds  with  less  terror,  though  solemnly 
— "  when  I  die,  do  not  let  them  take  me  to  that  gloomy 
vault  at  Summerwood;  and  put  no  stone  over  me — only 
grass.     I  think  I  could  rest  then." 

Lyncdon  turned  toward  her  with  a  smile.  "Katharine, 
dearest,  how  idly  you  are  talking  !  You  would  not  leave 
me,  would  you  ?" 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  Katharine,  with  vehemence  ;  and  as  she 
clung  to  her  bridegroom's  arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes, 
the  olden  madness  came  over  her,  and  she  could  have  bar- 
tered life,  hope,  peace — nay.  Heaven  itself,  for  Paul  Lyne- 
don's  love.  She  stood  in  the  sunshine — she  felt  the  breeze 
— his  presence  surrounded  her — his  tenderness  filled  her 
whole  soul  with  bliss.     The  terrible  phantom  at  her  side 


THE    OGILVIES.  413 

grew  dim.     She  forgot  all  tilings  on  earth  save  that  she 
was  Paul  Lynedou's  bride. 

At  that  instant  they  passed  out  of  the  sunshine  into  the 
heavy  gloom  that  pervaded  the  church.  It  felt  like  enter- 
ing a  tomb. 

A  few  minutes'  space,  and  the  scene  Avhich  the  young 
dreamer  had  once  conjured  up  became  reality.  Katharine 
knelt  at  the  altar  to  give  and  receive  the  vow  which  made 
lier  Lynedon's  bride.  Through  the  silence  of  the  desohite 
church  was  heard  the  low  mumbling  of  the  priest — a  feeble 
old  man.  He  joined  the  hands  of  the  bridegroom  and  tlie 
bride,  and  then  there  darted  through  Katharine's  memory 
another  scene.  As  she  felt  the  touch  of  Paul  Lynedon's 
hand,  she  almost  expected  to  hear  a  long-silenced  voice  ut- 
tering, not  th3  marriage  benediction,  but  the  awful  service 
for  the  dead. 

They  I'ose  up  man  and  wife.  The  old  nurse  came  for- 
ward with  her  tearful  congratulations  ;  and  the  clergyman, 
as  he  clutched  his  withered  fingers  over  the  golden  fee,  mut- 
tered something  about  "  long  life  and  happiness."  There 
Avas  no  other  blessing  on  the  bride. 

But  she  needed  none.  The  whole  wide  world  was  noth- 
ino-  to  her  now.  She  only  held  the  hand  which  pressed  her 
own  with  a  tender  though  somewhat  agitated  clasj:),  and 
said  to  herself,  "I  am  his— he  is  mine — forever."  Tliey 
walked  in  silence  from  the  church,  down  the  lane,  through 
the  rose-porch,  and  into  the  cottage  parlor.  Then  Katha- 
rine felt  herself  drawn  closely,  passionately,  into  liis  very 
heart ;  and  she  heard  the  words,  once  so  wildly  prayed  for, 
"  My  Katharine — my  toife  f" 

In  that  embrace — in  that  one  long,  never-ending  kiss — 
she  could  willingly  have  passed  from  life  into  eternity. 

After  a  while  they  both  began  to  talk  calmly.  Paul 
made  her  sit  by  the  open  window,  while  he  leaned  over  her, 
pulling  the  roses  from  outside  the  casement,  and  throwing 
them  leaf  by  leaf  into  her  lap.  While  he  did  so,  she  took 
courage  to  tell  him  of  the  letter  to  her  mother.  lie  mur- 
mured a  little  at  the  full  confession,  but  Avhen  he  read  it 


414  THE    OGILVIES. 

he  only  l>lesscd  her  the  more  for  her  tenderness  toward 
himself. 

"May  I  grow  worthy  of  such  love,  my  Katharine  !"  he 
said,  for  the  moment  deeply  touched.  "  But  we  must  not 
be  sad,  dearest.  Come,  sign  your  name — your  new  name. 
Are  you  content  to  bear  it  ?"  continued  he,  Avith  a  smile. 

Her  answer  was  another,  radiant  with  intense  love  and 
perfect  joy,  Paul  looked  over  her  while  she  laid  the  paper 
on  the  rose-strewed  windows-sill,  and  wrote  the  words 
'■^IxatJiarine  Lynedon.'''' 

She  said  them  over  to  herself  once  or  twice  with  a  lov- 
ing intonation,  and  then  turned  her  face  on  her  bridegroom's 
arm,  weeping. 

"Do  not  chide  rac,  Paul :  I  am  so  happy — so  happy! 
Now  I  begin  to  hope  that  the  past  may  be  forgiven  us — 
that  we  may  have  a  future  yet." 

"We  may?  We  ?r^7/,"  was  Lynedon's  answer.  While 
he  spoke,  through  the  hush  of  that  glad  May-noon  came  a 
sound — dull,  solemn  !  Another,  and  yet  another  !  It  was 
the  funeral  bell  tolling  from  the  near  church-tower. 

Katharine  lifted  up  her  face  white  and  ghastly.  "Paul, 
do  you  hear  that  ?"  and  her  voice  was  shrill  with  terror. 
"  It  is  our  marriage-peal :  we  have  no  other — W'e  ought  not 
to  have.     I  knew  it  was  too  late  !" 

"Nay, my  own  love,"  answered  Paul, becoming  alarmed 
at  her  look.  He  di'ew  her  nearer  to  him,  but  she  seemed 
neither  to  hear  his  voice  nor  to  feel  his  clasp. 

The  bell  sounded  again.  "Hark!  hark!"  Katharine  cried. 
"Paul,  do  you  remember  the  room  where  we  knelt,  j^ou  and 
I ;  and  he  joined  our  hands,  and  said  the  words, '  Earth  to 
earth — ashes  to  ashes  ?'  It  will  come  true :  I  know  it  will, 
and  it  is  right  it  should." 

Lynedon  took  his  bride  in  his  arms,  and  endeavored  to 
calm  her.  He  half  succeeded,  for  she  looked  up  in  his  face 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  Thank  j^ou  !  I  know  you  love  me, 
my  own  Paul,  my — "  Suddenly  her  voice  ceased.  With 
a  convulsive  movement  she  ]int  lier  hand  to  her  heart,  and 
her  head  sank  on  her  husband's  breast. 


TUE    OGILVIES.  415 

That  instant  the  awful  summons  came.  Without  a 
word,  or  sigli,  or  moan,  the  spirit  passed  ! 

Katharine  was  dead.  But  she  died  on  Paul  Lynedon's 
breast,  knowing  herself  his  wife,  beloved  even  as  she  had 
loved.  Let  us  not  pity  her.  Oftentimes  living  is  harder 
than  dying. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

She  was  his  own — both,  Love's. 

Bliss  unspeakable 
Became  at  once  their  being  and  its  food  ; 
The  world  they  did  inhabit  was  themselves, 
And  they  were  Love's,  and  all  their  world  was  good. 

Oh  ye  whose  hearts  in  hapjiy  love  repose, 
Your  thankful  blessings  at  its  footstool  lay. 
Since  faith  and  peace  can  issue  from  its  woes. 

Westland  Maeston. 

It  was  the  early  twilight  of  a  winter's  day,  clear  and 
cold,  though  not  frosty.  The  tire  burned  merrily  in  a  cheer- 
ful room — the  drawing-room  of  one  of  those  pretty  homes, 
half  cottage,  half  villa,  which  stud  the  environs  of  the  me- 
tropolis. But  no  hateful  London  sights  and  sounds  reached 
this  dwelling,  for  it  stood  on  a  fresh,  breezy  hillside,  and 
the  wind  that  now  came  whistling  round  had  swept  over 
an  open  cliampaign,  and  had  shaken  the  blossom  from  acres 
of  yellow  furze.  This  region  Avore  no  resemblance  to  the 
weary  desert  of  London  ;  and  though  from  one  spot  on  the 
hilltop  you  could  see  the  vast  cloud-hung  metropolis  lying 
far  beneath,  it  looked  less  like  reality  than  a  shadowy  city 
seen  in  dreams.  Turning  your  steps  another  way,  you 
might  sit  down  under  a  fir-grove,  and  gaze  over  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  field,  wood,  and  water,  stretching  for  miles  toward 
the  west ;  and  in  the  summer,  at  evening  time,  Avith  the 
sunset  light  fluttering  on  the  boles  of  the  fir-trees,  and  the 
wind  harping  musically  in  their  topmost  branches,  you 
might  fancy  yourself  in  a  very  fairy-land. 

Within  the  house,  which  lay  close  beside,  was  fairy-land 


416  THE    OGILVIES. 

too — a  paradise  of  home.  It  was  not  made  so  by  costly 
furniture,  Lut  its  appendages  bespoke  what  is  better  than 
Avealth — taste  and  refinement.  These  extended  their  in- 
fluence even  to  trifles.  The  crimson  curtains,  looped  up 
with  graceful  ornaments ;  the  mirror,  set  in  its  fanciful 
carved  flowers ;  the  mantel-piece,  with  its  delicate  freight 
of  Greek  vases  and  one  or  two  statuettes,  showed  how  a 
beautiful  mind  can  assemble  all  beautiful  things  around  it 
The  walls  were  hung,  not  with  pictui'es,  for  such  worthily 
painted  are  within  the  reach  of  few,  but  with  ])rints  from 
masters  ancient  and  modem.  One  could  see  at  once  tliat 
in  this  new  home — for  it  was  a  new  home — these  treasures 
of  Art  would  be  loved  as  household  comforts,  reverenced 
as  household  gods.  Books,  too,  there  were — not  exhibited 
in  glass  cases  under  lock  and  key,  but  strewed  here  and 
there  as  if  meant  to  be  read  ;  and  the  open  piano  showed 
its  ivory  smile,  like  the  cheerful  welcoming  iace  of  a  dear 
friend :  it  seemed  to  know,  instinctively,  that  it  would  be 
courted  as  such  iu  this  happy  home. 

There  w^as  no  sign  of  other  inhabitant  until  the  door 
opened,  and  a  light  creeping  step  crossed  the  yet  Untrod- 
den carpet.  The  shadow  in  the  mirror  Avas  that  of  a  wom- 
an iu  mourning,  but  Avhose  meek,  placid  flice  showed  that 
the  garb  was  now  Avorn  less  for  sorroAv  than  for  tender 
memory. 

Slie  stirred  the  fire,  drcAV  the  curtains,  lighted  the  lamp, 
and  looked  about  the  room,  performing  many  a  little  need- 
less office  Avhich  spoke  of  loving  expectation.  Then  she 
sat  down,  but  rose  u])  every  five  minutes  to  peer  through 
the  curtains  out  into  the  nio-ht.  She  started  at  hearino;  a 
ring  at  the  bell,  but  composed  herself,  saying,  half  aloud, 
that  "  it  could  not  be  they,  for  there  Avere  no  carriage- 
Avheels."  Still  she  Avas  a  little  tremulous  and  agitated 
when  the  door  opened,  and  the  pretty-looking  Avhite-rib- 
boned  maid  announced  Mr.  David  Drysdale. 

"Too  soon, I  see;  but  1  thought  I  might  venture  to  take  a 
peep  at  tlie  little  nest  before  the  birds  came  in  it,  especially 
as  you're  here.     Very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Penny thorne." 


THE    OGILVIES.  417 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  asked  him  to  sit  doAvn,  rather 
hesitatiiigly.  She  was  always  very  much  afraid  of  David 
Drysdale.  But  she  need  not,  for  the  sharpness  in  his  man- 
ner had  Ions:  since  been  softened  to  her. 

"Thank  you.  I  will  stay  a  few  minutes,  just  to  look 
round,  and  hear  about  the  young  couple.  When  do  they 
come  home  ?" 

"  To-night,"  was  the  answer.  "  They  have  had  a  month's 
traveling,  and  Mrs, Wychnor  wants  to  keep  this  New-year's 
Eve  at  home.'''' 

'•'"Home  !  It  sounds  a  sweet  word  to  them  now,  I  dare 
say.  I  can  understand  it  better  since  I've  studied  the  sci- 
ence of  human  nature,"  said  Drysdale,  musing.  "  I  did  not 
like  Phili])'s  marrying  at  first :  a  great  mind  should  do 
without  love  and  all  that — I  did.  But  maybe  he  was  right. 
Perhaps  the  lark  would  not  soar  with  so  strong  a  wing,  or 
sing  so  loud  and  high,  if  it  had  not  a  snug  little  nest  on  the 
ground." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Pennythorne — seeing  that  he  looked 
at  her,  though  she  did  not  quite  understand  what  he  was 
talking  about. 

Drysdale  gave  a  grunt  and  stopped.  After  a  minute's 
silence  he  uttered  the  rather  suspicious  remark,  "I  ho23e 
Master  Philip's  wife  is  a  woman  with  brains  ?" 

"  She  is  very  clever,  I  believe,  and  she  loves  him  so  dear- 
ly !  There  is  not  a  sweeter  creature  living  than  Miss  Elea- 
nor— Mrs.Wychnoi  that  is  now.  Do  you  know,"  and  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  seemed  becoming  positively  eloquent,  "  she 
would  not  even  consent  to  be  married  until  she  had  nursed 
poor  Lady  Ogilvie  through  her  long  illness,  never  quitting 
her  until  she  died." 

"Ah  !"  said  David,  looking  very  grave,  "  that  was  an  aw- 
ful story !  I  always  said  there  was  something  not  right 
about  Lynedon.  He  wasn't  a  true  soul  f  and  the  energetic 
hand  came  down  upon  the  table  with  a  sound  that  <][uite 
startled  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  Drysdale  went  on,  "  but 
when  I  think  of  that  poor  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  it  makes  me  hate 


418  THE    OGILVIES. 

him.  Mrs.  Lancaster  would  have  told  fine  lies  about  them 
if  Philip  Wychnor  had  not  stopped  her  mouth.  But  I  nev- 
er believed  any  thing  against  that  beautiful,  earnest-heart- 
ed creature." 

"Nor  I — for  her  poor  mother  died  speaking  quite  hap- 
pily of  the  dear  Katharine  whom  she  was  going  to  meet. 
And  I  do  believe,  Mr.  Drysdale,  that  she  knew  the  whole 
story,  though  no  one  else  did.  I  fjmcied,  and  Miss  Eleanor 
did  too,  that  it  was  told  in  the  letter  Avhich  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
wrote  just  before  that  strange  wedding.  We  found  it  un- 
der the  mother's  pillow,  and  it  was  put  into  her  cofiin  by 
her  own  desire." 

"  Poor  things  !  "Well,  it's  better  to  give  up  the  humani- 
ties altogether.  One  can  make  very  tolerable  children  of 
one's  books — quiet  babies,  too  ;  always  turn  out  Avell,  and 
don't  die  before  one's  self  Perhaps,  some  of  these  days, 
our  young  friend  here  may  envy  such  a  ragged,  childless 
old  philosopher  as  I." 

But  just  then,  as  Drj-sdalc  looked  on  the  cheerful  smiling 
room,  and  thought  of  his  own  gloomy  attic,  the  faintest 
shadow  of  a  doubt  crossed  his  mind.  Mrs.  Pennythorue 
sat  gazing  on  the  fire,  the  expression  of  her  soft  brown  eyes 
deepened  by  a  memory  which  his  Avords  had  awakened — ■ 
a  memory  not  sad  now,  but  calm  and  holy.  If  the  newly- 
married  pair  could  have  beheld  her,  and  then  regarded  the 
quaint, restless-eyed,  lonely  old  man,  they  would  have  clasp- 
ed each  other's  hands,  and  entered  on  life  without  fear, 
knowing  that  "  it  was  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone." 

David  Drysdale  staid  a  little  Avhile  longer,  and  then  de- 
parted. Mrs.  Pennythorne's  thoughtful  mood  might  have 
ended  in  sadness  but  that  she  found  it  necessary  to  bestir 
herself  in  ei-asing  the  marks  of  two  muddy,  clumsy  boots 
from  the  pretty  carpet.  She  had  scarcely  succeeded  when 
the  long-desired  arrival  was  heard. 

Who  shall  describe  the  blessed  coming  home  —  the 
greeting,  all  smiles,  and  tears,  and  broken  words ;  the 
liappy,  admiring  glances  around ;  the  fireside  corner, 
made  ready  for  the  bride;   the  busy  handmaid,  rich  in 


THE    OGILVIES.  419 

curtseys  and  curiosity — until  the  door  closes  upon  the  lit- 
tle group  ? 

"  J^ow,  my  Eleanor,"  said  the  young  husband,  "  welcome 
home  !" 

"Welcome  home!"  echoed  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  ready  to 
weep.  But  very  soon  Philip  took  her  hand,  and  Eleanor 
fell  on  her  neck  and  kissed  her  almost  like  a  daughter. 
Then  they  both  thanked  her  tenderly,  aud  said  how  pleas- 
ant it  was  to  have  her  kind  face  awaitino-  them  on  their  ar- 
rival. 

"You  will  stay  with  us  and  keep  this  New-year's  Eve, 
dear  friend  ?"  said  Philip.  It  certainly  cost  him  something 
to  give  the  invitation,  but  he  did  it  warmly  and  sincerely, 
feeling  it  was  duo. 

However,  Mrs.  Pennythorne  did  not  accept  it.  She  nev- 
er left  her  husband  in  an  evening  now,  she  said;  and  she 
had  not  far  to  go — only  to  her  son's,  where  they  were  stay- 
ing with  Fred.  "lie  rather  likes  to  have  us  there,  now 
Isabella  is  so  much  away ;  and  we  like  it  too,  because  of  the 
baby.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  have  a  grandchild  ;  and  lie 
is  such  a  beauty  !"  said  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  "  I  sometimes 
think  he  has  my  Leigh's  eyes,  but  I  would  not  let  them  call 
him  Leigh."  And  though  she  spoke  contentedly,  and 
even  smiled,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  mother's  thoughts 
were  with  her  lost  darlino-  still. 

Then  she  went  away,  and  the  husband  and  wife  stood 
for  the  first  time  by  their  own  hearth— not  quite  calmly, 
perhaps,  for  Philip's  voice  trembled,  and  Eleanor's  long 
lashes  Avere  cast  down,  glittering  with  a  joyful  tear.  But 
the  husband  kissed  it  away,  and  then  stretched  himself  out 
in  the  arm-chaii-,  book  in  hand,  to  "  act  the  lazy,"  as  he  said, 
while  she  made  tea.  He  did  not  read  much,  apparently, 
for  he  held  the  volume  upside  down  ;  and  when  his  wife 
stood  beside  him  Avith  the  tea,  he  drew  her  bright  face 
down  to  liis  with  a  fondness  that  threw  both  cup  and  sau- 
cer into  imminent  peril. 

Then  they  wandered  together  about  the  room  and  tlie 
house,  admiring  everv  thing,  and  talking  of  a  thousand 


420  THE    OGILVIES, 

happy  plans.  Eleanor  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  began  to 
sing,  but  her  tones  faltered  more  than  once ;  and  Philip 
tried  to  read  aloud,  but  it  would  not  do — both  their  hearts 
were  full  of  a  happiness  too  tremulous  and  deep.  At  last 
Eleanor  made  her  husband  lean  back  in  his  arm-chair,  while 
she  came  and  sat  at  his  feet,  laying  her  head  on  his  knee. 
Thus  they  rested,  listening  to  the  wailing  of  the  stormy 
wind  outside,  which  made  more  blessed  the  peace  and  still- 
ness of  tlieir  own  dear  home. 

They  talked  not  wholly  of  joy,  but  of  gone-by  sorrow — 
even  of  death.  They  spoke  with  a  solemn  tenderness  of 
Hugh — of  Katharine;  and  then  of  him  Avho,  if  still  living, 
was  to  them  as  one  numbered  with  the  dead.  Paul  Lyne- 
don  had  passed  away,  and  was  seen  no  more.  He  went 
abroad.  Whether  he  wore  out  existence  in  anguished  sol- 
itude, or  sought  oblivion  in  reckless  pleasure  —  perhaps 
crime — no  one  then  knew,  and  no  one  ever  did  know.  Even 
his  name  had  left  no  record  save  on  a  little  daisy-covered 
grave,  wliicli  bore  the  inscription  "  Katharine  Lynedon." 

"xVnd,  dearest !"  said  Pliilip,  "  when  I  stood  beside  it  last, 
in  that  peaceful,  smiling  church -yard — where  you  audi 
will  go  to  see  it  one  day — I  thought  of  the  almost  frenzied 
man  who  drove  me  from  liim,  venting  his  son-ow  in  curses. 
Perchance  the  poor  heart  beneath  my  feet  might  have  lived 
to  know  a  bitterer  sorrow  still.  And  I  said  to  myself, '  So 
best!  so  best!'" 

Eleanor  kissed  the  hand  on  which  her  clieek  rested,  and 
both  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence.  Then  they  spoke  no 
more  of  the  past.  Hour  by  hour  the  old  year  waned,  and 
the  young  liusband  and  wife  still  sat  talking,  in  happy  yet 
grave  confidence,  of  their  coming  future — of  Philip's  future, 
for  hers  was  absorbed  in  his. 

"It  shall  be  a  life  good,  and  great,  and  full  of  honor,"  said 
the  wife,  fondly  ;  "  I  know  it  will !" 

"  If  I  can  make  it  so.  Heaven  helping  me,"  answered  Phil- 
]]>.  "  But,  Eleanor,  darling,  it  is  a  liard  life,  too.  We,  who 
work  at  once  with  heart,  soul,  and  brain, have  many  a  temp- 
tation to  struggle  with,  and  many  a  sorrow  to  bear;  and 


THE    OGILVIES.  421 

they  who  love  us  must  bear  much  likewise  for  us  and  with 
us — sometimes  eyenj'/'07n  us." 

"I  fear  not,"  whispered  Eleanor;  "I,  too,  will  enter  on 
my  life,  saying,  in  my  husband's  words,  '  Heaven  helping 
me.'  And  Heaven  will  help  us  both ;  and  we  will  walk  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand,  each  doing  our  appointed  work  until 
our  lives'  end." 

"Be  it  even  so, my  true  wife,  the  help-meet  God  has  given 
me  !"  was  the  low  answer. 

"And,  my  own  husband,  when,  after  all  our  sorrows,  we 
rest  here  heart  to  heart,  looking  back  on  the  past  as  on  a 
troubled  dream,  wherein  we  remember  only  the  love  that 
shone  through  all,  let  us  think  of  those  who  still  go  in  dark- 
ness, loving,  struggling,  suffering.  Let  us  pray  that  they 
may  have  strength  to  endure,  waiting  until  the  light  come. 
Oh  Philip,  God  grant  that  all  Avho  love  purely,  truly,  faith- 
fully, may  find  at  last,  like  us,  a  blessed  home !" 

"Amen  !"  said  Philip  Wychnor. 

And  with  that  prayer  the  first  hour  of  the  New  Year 
struck. 


THE   END. 


rp 


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